In the Black of It

Fiction

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I was lying in the sun, the world still, when it hit me. The wind picked up, bringing the smells, unfolding like a map in layers. First, the field: sunbaked grass and the scent of warm dirt. Then the forest: musty wood rot, damp and thick in the air. And beyond that, the swamp—a foul, sharp reek. The piss-soaked rags and the salty flesh of fish guts, turning to worms in the sun. The corrosive stench of a car rusting away in the muck, its oil pooling in acrid puddles. And beneath it all, something darker, drawing me in.

I could smell, in that distant swamp, the scent of females—the sharp, acrid spray on metal and wood. There was also the lingering odor of fat dripped onto now-cold coals, and this smell mixed with another more enticing one—a brighter scent, sweet and honey-musked. Then, with a blast of wind, this scent, her scent, broke through the others, cutting straight to me, an arrow that pointed to her. I could taste it, feel it crawling through the bones of my spine, down to the twitch of my tail.

I couldn’t let it go.

But it was a long way away. I had to cross the road, the endless field, through the forest, and beyond to where the scent had come from. I had never wandered far from the farm, never crossed the road, always warned by the daily carnage on its banks. Each step toward it was a risk, danger lurking everywhere.

The first night of my attempt, I crouched on the edge of the road, feeling exposed on the bare concrete, ears straining for the clack of wings. I stayed low, ears perked for the roar of approaching cars and their blinding lights. The road suddenly flared with headlights, flashing through the dry grasses, making the weeds shift in the sudden, unnatural floodlight. For a moment, it blinded me—everything washed red, shadows twisting and stretching—and I shrank back into the safety of the dark, waiting for the silence to return. I didn’t dare cross.

But the second night, I found courage. I lifted my nose, breaking apart the smells, trying to find her, to decode the scene my eyes couldn’t see. I waited for the silence and dashed across the road, beginning the long trek through the field.

There was no moon, which meant I was hidden, but also meant I was blind. I saw bats and the long flashing silhouettes of owls. I imagined talons clamping around me, lifting me into the sky, my claws scratching, flailing wildly in the air. At best, they would drop me, breaking my back on the ground. Other dangers lurked—silent, shifting shapes. I thought of coyotes and heard the eerie screams of foxes echoing across the field.

Each night, I ventured further, staying out later, until the mornings blurred into daylight. Then came the night of the rain. Heavy and relentless, it drove me forward. As I ran, the smell of wild mint filled the air, the field growing greener and thicker the closer I came to the forest. By the time I reached the forest’s edge, I was drenched and climbed shivering inside a hollow log, my fur heavy and damp. The mint clung to my paws, its sharpness burning my eyes, its odor mixing with the yeasty smell of my damp coat. I waited there, trembling until the storm passed. By the time I stumbled back home, the sun beating down on my matted fur, it was past noon. Sara was waiting, calling my name, banging a spoon on a bowl, frantic with worry. Feeling guilty, I let her scoop me up, my hind legs dangling. She combed the burrs and mud from my fur, scolding me as she brushed me to a sheen. I swore I wouldn’t go back out.

But my mind stayed fixed on the smell. A few days later, the winds lifted again, carrying the scent—fresher, stronger, drawing me in. Like burning cumin, like hot milk and cinnamon, sharp and tangy. I paused, trying to hold back, to keep control, but that night, the lightning split the sky, my tail perked; my ears twitched with madness and my body launched into motion. I ran—across the road, through the long stretch of field, legs burning as the wet grass whipped my sides. The field seemed endless, but I didn’t stop. I reached the brambles and hurled myself through, careless as the thorns tore at my fur, ripping past them into the dense heart of the forest. The smells hit me all at once: pungent, sulfuric, and nutty. The place was near now, just beyond the trees. And her scent was everywhere, all around me.

I was blind with it, my whole body focused on that one light flickering in the darkness. And that’s why I didn’t hear it, didn’t smell it in time. It was on me before I knew it—the rat, sinking its teeth into the back of my neck, wrapping its strong claws around me. I screeched and thrashed, trying to get my back legs in position to scratch him off. His grip was iron, teeth tearing deeper, blood beginning to spill. I smelled the rancid stench of his breath, the filthy claws digging into my ribs. I felt my own blood, hot and trickling.

Her musk hit me again, cutting through everything. Was she there, watching? I twisted, torquing my whole lower half around, stretching my tendons, coiling myself like a snake. I forced my hind legs to connect with the rat’s belly, flexing hard and raking him, my claws ripping through his flesh. The reek of his guts rose around me as his teeth released, and he fell off, twitching and bleeding. I dragged myself away, afraid he had one last breath in him. I lay there, panting, watching the stars through a break in the trees, letting my heartbeat slow.

She was there, in the pitch-black of the forest floor. Her smell so close, it was like I could see her. I felt her watching me. A small glint of fishbone in the moonlight. Then those glowing green eyes floating in the dark, her sleek black fur catching the moonlight in oily stripes. She came closer, sniffing at me. On the silhouette of her ear, a ragged V-shaped tear. She stepped even closer, curious. I was spent. She knew I couldn’t chase her, not tonight. She sauntered away, not looking back.

I had no choice. If I stayed, I’d die. My wound bled as I dragged myself back—through the forest, across the field—my body leaden, each step slower than the last. The early morning grey crept over me. Wings passed overhead. I swiped at a crow as it circled low. Vultures spiraled above, waiting to see what would become of me. The heat of the rising sun pressed down, making me heavier. My head hung low, whiskers brushing the grasses as I slouched home.

I reached the road, but just as I meant to gather my strength for the final leap home, the world flared bright—like the sun streaking across my vision—then everything went black.

I woke up wrapped tightly in bandages, in Sara’s arms. She told me everything. How she had searched for days, printed flyers, and sought help from the neighbors. A teenage boy on a bike had found me curled in a ditch by the road. He thought I was dead. I almost was. Sara said she didn’t think I’d make it. She said she was sorry; they had taken something from me. I could feel it—an acheless absence. A part of me was gone. Now there was a peace—a pain now at rest.

The stitches dissolved, the bandages came off, and my fur grew back, golden and flecked, as magnificent as ever. Sara said I would stay inside at night now, and she was sorry, but she was locking the door. I resigned myself to my perch on the piano near the window and did my mouse hunting in the early mornings after she had gone to school. I accepted those nights, watching the dark yard through the window, the road, the field, the silhouette of the forest. I could no longer smell the place. Or if I did, it was like a memory—faint, like the memory of a blind eye.

Until one night, sitting at my perch, I saw her—her silhouette in the yard, watching me, perfectly still from the tree stump. I knew it was her immediately. The V cut from her ear. She looked at me as if calling me to her. Her black fur melted into the shadows; her green eyes floating. Though the door was locked, I went to her. I went to her, drawn by some bright darkness in me, drawn to her dark shape, the pull of something wild stirring deep inside me.

There was always a way out.