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Prelude to a Storm

[background story, five years before chapter 1 of Storms]

Chester ran. His breaths came out in huge puffs of steam, freezing quickly in the cold Alaska air. In his mind, he pictured a cheetah running across the Mara, and tried desperately to channel that image into real speed, but the forest was too thick here, he couldn't run in a straight line for more than 10 meters. Or "yards", as these Yanks like to measure things, he thought. Why can't they just use metric like civilized -

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a gunshot. He instinctively changed directions and continued running. Damn! I thought they wouldn't be able to see me in this forest. Maybe they're just trying to scare me. He glanced back but couldn't see his pursuers. His heart sank, though, as his moonlight-grey eyes lingered on the line of footprints, neatly outlined by the fresh inch of snow that had fallen this morning. Wonderful. Just bloody wonderful.

He continued running, but started wondering if there was any point. His backpack felt like it was full of lead. Eventually, he'd be exhausted, and they'd just follow the trail to him. Besides, he didn't know that they'd try to kill him if they caught him. Maybe they'd just tell him to clear off the company's property. More likely, they'd beat the crap out of him, then tell him to clear off. If he was lucky. It all depended on whether they knew about the camera, and knew about the pictures he'd taken.

He couldn't let them take the film. As much as he wanted to ditch the heavy backpack, he couldn't do it. The company was guilty of violating any number of environmental laws, to the point of criminal negligence. Someone was going to jail over this, and the company was going to lose millions in fines, not to mention cleanup costs and the loss of future oil revenue. With any luck, the legal eagles would both drive the company into bankruptcy as well as get this land declared off-limits to commercial exploitation.

A tiny red dot appeared on the tree in front of him, which then exploded in a shower of wood fragments, several pelting him in the face. A split second later, he heard the report of the rifle, and smelled fresh pine sap. He cursed and changed direction again, taking off with a renewed burst of speed.

A low hanging branch caught his fur-lined hat and ripped it off, exposing his sandy-blonde hair. He remembered the man at the store carefully explaining the importance of a good hat, after he'd asked about Chester's faintly British accent and found out he'd grown up in Kenya. "Your head is your number one source of heat loss," he had said. "Keep your hat on." Great, he thought, now maybe I'll freeze to death before they can shoot me.

He had no idea where he was or which direction he was running. His stomach clenched in fear as he realized he could be running right back to them. He changed direction again. He realized there was no point, this new direction could be the wrong one just as easily as the last one, but he felt better anyway.

He saw the forest getting brighter ahead, and realized he was coming to the edge. But which one? He decided to at least peek out and see where he was. He ran to the edge of the forest and, panicking, threw himself backwards.

The forest ended abruptly at the edge of a cliff. Chester stood back up, walked carefully to the edge, and peered over. It wasn't exactly vertical, but it was close enough. No way he could run or even walk down it. He'd need to use the climbing gear. That would be just perfect for his pursuers. They'd arrive at the edge of the cliff, pull loose his rope, and find some safe way down into the valley to recover the film off the body. And if it turned out he wasn't quite dead, a quick blow with a blunt object would do the trick and look not all suspicious under the circumstances.

He was carefully eyeing the steep cliff face, trying to estimate his chances of surviving a slide down (slim), when a bullet struck him square in the center of his backpack. He heard a loud clang as the bullet hit the small steel pot he'd cooked stew in just last night. The force of the impact pushed him forward, and he finally heard the rifle report and understood what was happening as the cliff face came up to meet him. He tried to fling his arms and legs out, to catch himself on the cliff face and stop from rolling, but he was moving too fast already. The world started spinning about faster and faster as rocks began to beat on him, hitting him from random directions. Then everything went black.

Chester! Wake up! You need to finish your chores! You can't come home until you finish your chores!

Chester walked across the field, watching out for any predators as he strolled along. His family's plantation wasn't exactly the Masai Mara National Reserve, but it wasn't unusual for the occasional big cat to wander onto the plantation. Just last month, several workers had reported a leopard (or chui, as they called it) in the fields. His dad had gone out with a rifle to find it, but he never did. Leopards are shy and sneaky. He could scarcely believe it when his father told him there were more leopards in Africa than lions and cheetahs combined. Chester had seen plenty of lions and cheetahs in the ten long years he'd been alive, but very rarely had he seen a leopard. Once he'd come across one sleeping in a tree with a freshly killed antelope hanging from another branch. His father had said this was for safety. Lions or hyenas would kill a leopard if they could, and steal its kill in any case, but lions and hyenas don't climb trees.

He heard noises coming from a clump of trees just beyond the edge of the field. It sounded like crying. "Hello? Hello?" he called, but there was no response. He tried again in Swahili, "Jambo? Jambo?" Still nothing. He approached the trees cautiously to see what was going on.

A small lion cub was stuck in the Y of a tree, about a meter and a half off the ground. It had apparently been climbing and slipped. Now, one leg was lodged firmly in the Y while it struggled with the other three to pull free. Its mother circled, clearly upset by her child's crying but unable to do anything to help. She circled again, then put her forepaws on the tree, grabbed the cub by the neck with her jaws, and started pulling back and downwards. The cub began screaming, its mother was pulling its leg off!

Chester raced forward, screaming, "No, lion! No! Stop! Simba! Hapana! Hapana!" He was about two meters from the lioness when he realized this was the stupidest thing he'd ever done, and probably the last. However, the lioness was so startled that she jumped back and ran for about ten meters before stopping and looking over the situation.

Seeing his chance, Chester leaped forward and grabbed the little cub with one hand while getting his other hand under the cub's trapped leg. One quick push upwards, and the leg was free. He hastily dropped the surprised cub and turned to run, but as he turned, he saw the lioness charging him. His father's words came to him in that moment, "Lions don't climb trees." Luckily, little boys do. Chester went up the tree like a monkey. He was over four meters high by the time the lioness got to the bottom.

Chester proudly looked down from his high perch, but his pleased expression turned to terror as the lioness started up the tree after him. "Lions don't climb trees!" he screamed down at her, but she growled at him and continued her ascent. "Stop it! Bad simba! Bad! Mbaya! Mbaya!" She continued to climb. He began crying and screaming incoherently. She continued to climb. However, once she got past the Y, she didn't seem to be able or willing to climb any higher. She growled at him a few times, then dropped back to the ground.

She sat down next to her cub and began licking him all over. Chester wiped the tears from his eyes and stared down at them. He wondered how long it would be before they left. Then he noticed two more lionesses approaching. Oh no! What if the whole pride shows up and decides to sleep here tonight? What if I fall asleep and fall out of the tree? "Go simba, go join your sisters," he said, but she looked up over her shoulder at him and growled, and he decided to keep any further suggestions to himself.

The two new arrivals sniffed their sister and cub, then rubbed cheeks. One of the two walked over to the tree and placed her two forepaws against it, standing up on her hindquarters and looking up at Chester with obvious interest. Chester tried to stay quiet but couldn't quite stifle his renewed sobbing. Her sisters lazily flopped to the ground, and she lost interest in Chester and joined her sisters in taking a nap. The little cub took its cue from its mother and fell asleep.

Everyone remained in their respective positions for a couple hours, Chester silently sobbing while the lions slept. Eventually, the cub woke up, and began pestering its mother until she too was awake. She stood up and began walking away, little cub chasing after her tail as she went. Her sisters soon stood up and followed her.

As soon as they were out of sight, Chester scrambled down the tree and ran home.

Chester! Stop sleeping and wake up! You're not done here! You're not anywhere close to done! Don't you remember why you were born?! Wake up!

At the dinner table that night, Chester saw a storm brewing in his father's sky-blue eyes. His father began scolding him about his foolishness, which he had told his mother about as soon as he got home. He wished she hadn't mentioned it to father, but he supposed it was inevitable.

"Bloody, bloody stupid! What were you thinking? Huh? What the hell did you think you were doing?"

"Saving the little cub," Chester replied.

His father sighed. "Look, son. Nature takes care of her own, in her own way. It's not our place to interfere."

Chester was defiant. "So, if you were on a dock, and some guy was drowning, you wouldn't throw him a rope? You'd just let nature take its course?"

"That's different," his father said. "We're the same species. Then it's our business, Man's business, not something natural."

Aren't we all Nature's children? Chester thought, but he knew better than to share such thoughts with his father.

Later that night, he watched the moonrise with his mother. The air had cooled down some, and a slight breeze carried the smells from his mother's flower garden to the porch, where they sat on a wooden swing built for two. Chester leaned against his mother, and she placed her arm around him, hugging him to her. She, too, smelled of flowers.

"Do you think I did a stupid thing?" he asked, looking up into his mother's grey eyes. He could see the moon reflected in them, its grey matching her eyes perfectly.

She looked down into his eyes, noticing she didn't have to look as far down as she once did. She'd be looking up into his eyes in a few short years. The thought filled her with both joy and sadness. "I think you did a very brave thing, Chester. But the only difference between 'brave' and 'foolhardy' is whether or not you succeed in the end. If you succeed, they call you a hero. If you fail, they call you a fool."

They were silent for a while. Then Chester asked, "Aren't we just another of nature's creatures? Aren't we just as much a part of nature as any other creature?"

"We are all part of Gaia. She is our mother, and we are all her children."

"So, I was right to do what I did."

"I suppose so. You must do what you feel is right, but you need to control your instincts, use your common sense. Try not to get yourself killed, okay?"

"I promise, Mom. I promise I won't die on you."

She hugged him more tightly. "I know you won't. I know." She looked off towards the horizon, an unreadable expression on her face. She whispered, "I know..."

Wake up, Chester! Chester! Chester?

I give up. You're his mother, why don't you try?

So are you. But I'll try...

CHARLES CHESTER HARRISON THE THIRD, IF YOU DON'T WAKE YOUR ASS UP RIGHT NOW YOU'RE IN BIG TROUBLE!!!

Chester woke with a start. "Mom?" he said without thinking. Then his mind caught up with his situation. Of course not. His parents had died in a car accident in Nairobi twelve years ago, just before he'd gone off to college in San Francisco. He shook his head to clear away the remnants of the dream. As usual, he could barely remember his dreams after waking, but he distinctly recalled dreaming about the time he'd been treed by lions. How appropriate, he thought, but this time the lions have guns. I need to be the leopard, the chui, shy and unseen.

He looked around. He was at the bottom of a cliff. As he turned to see how far he'd fallen, every part of his body decided it was time to start the complaints. He tried his best to ignore them and looked up. He almost whistled, but caught it and stifled it. "Try not to get yourself killed," he whispered. "I promised, and I remember..."

It occurred to him that it would take some time for the men to find a safe route down into the valley. But how long have I been unconscious? Three minutes? Three hours? He stood up and satisfied himself that his legs weren't broken. By some miracle, he'd retained the backpack during the fall, but it seemed heavier than ever. He decided he had to risk taking a moment to sort through it and lighten his load.

He discarded the tent and sleeping bag immediately. He recognized the valley and knew he'd either reach the rented Jeep in a few hours or be dead, either way he wouldn't need them. He started discarding the food and cooking utensils until he got to the pot with the bullet embedded in the side. Then he changed his mind on two items, carefully repacking the pot and the frying pan in the center of the pack, to protect his spine. He knew he should discard his camera equipment, too, just keeping the film, but he couldn't bring himself to do so. It wasn't that the system cost several thousand dollars altogether. He loved that camera. He'd sooner lose weight by cutting off an arm. He moved a few rolls of film to the space between the pot and his back, where they'd be safe from any gunshots.

His load considerably lightened, he set off down the valley, moving slowly and carefully, constantly looking for men with rifles, or little red dots on the rocks and trees near him.

It was a beautiful day. The sun had come out after the morning snow, and now the sky was clear blue, except for a few wispy cirrus clouds high in the sky. The valley was nestled between two majestic mountains, their snow covered peaks giving way to bare rock, then evergreen trees dashed artistically about the landscape and through the valley. A tiny creek ran down the center of the valley, babbling and burbling as it went. An eagle soared overhead. And Chester was too busy surviving to stop and snap some pictures. The missed opportunity would have killed him, except for the fact that he'd already taken pictures of this valley several days ago.

After a couple of hours, Chester emerged from some woods to see a lynx resting on a log in a clearing. He'd seen a lynx before, but the last one had been barely over half a meter in body size, this one was a good meter and a quarter. Granted, it wasn't as big as any of the African big cats, but it was still a powerful and formidable cat. Like the leopard, the lynx is known for being secretive. Perhaps even more so. Emotions warred within him. He wanted to run, he wanted to stay and admire, and most of all he wanted to pull out his camera. This was a rare moment, to catch so secretive a cat out sunning itself on a log. He'd heard once that according to some legends, lynx were magical creatures, keepers of secret knowledge, with the power to turn invisible.

As he stood frozen, trying to make up his mind, he noticed a slight movement on the rocks behind the lynx. A tiny red dot was slowly making its way towards him. Somewhere, on the other side of the valley perhaps, someone was looking through a telescopic sight at this very spot, slowing scanning, looking for him. So far, they hadn't seen him, or they'd be taking aim on him right now. If he moved, the movement might catch their attention, but if he didn't move, it would only be a matter of seconds before that tiny red dot was on him. Maybe, if I don't move, they simply won't see me. He had avoided any flashy colors while picking out his clothing, but he wasn't exactly in camouflage, either. He fought the urge to turn his head and look for the shooter. Years of nature photography had taught him the best way to spot an animal was to look for the eyes. If he kept from looking towards the shooter, he greatly increased his chances of not being noticed.

The tiny red dot moved along the rocks behind the lynx. Chester was now confused. What angle was the laser beam coming from? Shouldn't it be on the lynx? The urge to turn and look was becoming unbearable. He tried to imagine in his head what the landscape behind him looked like, where a shooter could be standing in order for the beam to come in over the lynx and hit the point on the rocks behind it. He wasn't sure the mountain behind him was high enough to get that angle, and how would anyone have gotten all the way to the summit in anything short of a week? His mind spun, looking for answers. Then it stopped, his thoughts frozen, as the tiny red dot moved towards him. It was almost to him now. He closed his eyes and prayed, "Goddess, protect me. I have a job to do. I can't come home yet."

After a minute, he opened his eyes. He carefully glanced left and right without turning his head. No red dots. He slowly turned around, looking back in the direction he thought the beam had come from. He saw a clearing on the opposite side of the valley. He could just make out a figure in the clearing, holding a rifle. The rifle was now pointing up the valley from him, and moving further up. He quickly ran down the valley and into the next patch of woods. As he ran by the log, he noted the lynx was nowhere to be seen. Typical cat, he thought, doesn't even bother to say goodbye.

As he worked his way further down the valley, it occurred to him that the laser beam might have come from some other shooter. If it had been the guy in the clearing he spotted, his beam would have had to pass through the lynx in order to hit the rocks behind it. So it had to be another shooter's, unless the lynx had been transparent to light, but if that were the case, how would he have been able to see the lynx? Polarized light, perhaps, so that the lynx could only be seen from certain angles? Now that's a neat trick! I wonder, if I come back with some kitty treats, can I convince the lynx to teach it to me? Chester laughed at his own silliness. He was almost to the Jeep, and his spirits were rising.

Chester burst out of the woods near the road, grinning. Then he stopped dead. Two men were leaning against the black Jeep. One of them had a rifle pointed right at him. There was a blue Ford truck parked next to the Jeep. Of course. The easiest way to get into the valley would have been to simply go back, hop in the truck, and drive around to the same road I used to get here initially. These two have been here all along, waiting for me, while the others worked their way up the valley to try to catch me.

"About time you showed up," the man without a rifle said. "I was starting to worry that something might have happened to you. Something nasty." The other man chuckled and fingered his rifle.

"If you kill me, there will be an investigation."

"Nothing we couldn't handle. However, I'd like to avoid the hassle if possible."

"He talks funny," said the man with the rifle. "What is he? Brit? Aussie?"

Chester sneered at the rifleman. "Only a moron would mistake those two accents. They don't sound anything alike."

The rifleman lifted his gun, looking at Chester through the sights, but the other man pushed the barrel downwards. "Now now, Mike, we don't want any undue violence if we can avoid it. Isn't that right, English? You don't want to die today, do you?"

Chester just stared at him.

"I'll take that as a 'no'. Why don't you drop the backpack, then."

Reluctantly, Chester removed the backpack. What choice did he have?

"Very good, English. Now, go stand over there."

While Chester stood quietly where he was told, the unarmed man casually dumped out the contents of his backpack and began searching through it. The man with the rifle pointed out the pot with the bullet embedded in the side. "Look's like Steve really did tag the bastard after all!" He laughed, then fired a shot at the pot himself, adding his own mark to the already damaged pot.

The unarmed man jumped back and cursed as the abused pot flew by. "Cut it out, dickhead! I'm trying to find the fucking film!"

"Aw, you're no fun."

The unarmed man resumed rummaging through the camera equipment. Finally, he found the leather case with more than a dozen rolls of film in it. "Jackpot," he said. "Now, we just need to make sure he didn't stick any in his pockets or something. Lean against the hood of the Jeep and spread 'um."

As the man thoroughly patted Chester down and emptied all his pockets, Chester asked, "What makes you think I won't tell anyone about what I've seen?"

"Oh, I imagine you will. We get lots of envirokooks always pestering the EPA with allegations of one sort or another. If they take you seriously, they'll send an investigator to check it out. Bob's his name. He comes by to inspect things every few months, actually. He has expensive tastes, especially for exotic women, so it only takes him a few months to burn through the money."

"You aren't bending a regulation or two here, you're engaged in outright criminal activity! I could go straight to the police!"

The man holding the rifle said, "You mean my Dad, the sheriff? Or one of his buddies with the Feds?"

Chester shook his head, cursing.

The unarmed man chuckled. "Don't worry, we've been doing this for a long time, as you could no doubt tell. We've got all the angles covered. Nice passport, by the way," he said, waving it in Chester's face before handing it back to him. "By the time you get back to town, we'll have already reported you were around trespassing and harassing our people. They'll probably deport your ass back to Kenya before you have a chance to talk to anyone. I'd hate to have to pay off Bob again so soon." He turned to leave, then turned back. "Oh, I almost forgot! One last thing..." He punched Chester in the gut.

The man with the rifle set it down and joined in. Later, two more men showed up and helped out. Eventually, they all got into the Ford and drove off.

After a while, Chester managed to stand up and stagger off the road into the woods. He found where the pot had landed. It had bounced a couple of times, spilling its contents, but they were all within a few feet of it: the three rolls of film he'd stuffed into it earlier to protect them from gunshots. He pocketed them and walked back to the road. "Enjoy the nature pictures, gents. I really wish I'd gotten more of that beautiful valley. Oh well." He carefully repacked his camera equipment, then got into the Jeep.

He sat behind the wheel of the Jeep for a minute. Then he got out of the Jeep and went back into the woods, returning with the ruined pot. "You're a hero, pot. You saved my life, and you saved my film. I can't very well abandon you in the woods." He placed the heroic cookware in the passenger seat and drove off.

He was on the cell phone as soon as he was in range of a tower, dialing the best journalist he knew, his old college girlfriend from San Francisco, Theresia Espinoza. "Theresia, I need the help of a good investigative reporter. Can you catch the next flight to Anchorage? Oh, don't cry to me about your thin Mexican blood, señorita, I grew up on the equator, remember? Let me tell you a little story about evil company men, conspiracy and collusion with corrupt EPA officials, local law enforcement, maybe even the feds. Your words, my pictures, our investigation - there's a Pulitzer in this, I guarantee it. Just get your ass up here. We're about to make some of the biggest oil companies in the world very, very angry. Heh! Yeah, I knew you'd like that. It all began when I decided to do a little photo shoot on the wildlife of Alaska. As green as I was in college? Hell, Theresia, you bloody well didn't expect me to get less liberal as I got older, did you? Silly girl. Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, you'll never believe what I found poking around..."

Do you think he suspects?

I doubt it. What's a few more lucky coincidences on top of the pile he's already had? He's led a charmed life so long now, it probably seems perfectly ordinary to him.

That could be a problem.

We'll see... How long, do you think?

I don't know. Half a decade, maybe. As you said, we'll see...