Lynx - a Sketch

Lynx

He steps back, a slow, hopeful step, then another, then breathes again, then stops. After a while he retreats one more step and then goes absolutely still again. He breathes as softly as he can, tries to swallow, can’t. His throat is very dry, but he dares not cough or clear it. His eyes are still on hers, hers still hold his.

His gaze does not leave the lynx, not even while he backs away, letting his feet do the step by step seeing. She is no lion to be sure, no tiger, no cheetah, but she is still cat and large and mother enough to do serious, perhaps even lethal damage. This he knows with his entire wanting-to-stay-alive body as he backs away, veering a little to the left to get back to the path. She is larger than his German shepherd back home and seems made of nothing but strength and intent. For every backward step of his, she takes one forward to maintain the twenty or so foot distance between them. He reaches the path, feels the firmer soil under he feet, still facing the cat.

What he had first seen were the cubs, playing not a stones throw from the path. He had stopped and looked, God, what a wonderful sight, and had thought about his camera back in the tent, but this outing was only a stroll, some fresh air, some wake up and smell the mountains kind of stroll, or he would have brought it as usual. And there was no time to go back for it. But even without the camera he wanted to get closer, a better look, how often to you see lynx cubs playing—they were lynx, were they not?

So he had stepped off the path, and approached them as softly as he could. They had not seen him yet, but perhaps half way to the furry frolic, it must have been his scent, they suddenly looked up in eerie unison, froze and darted, first sensing then seeing his approach, and quite suddenly, there was mama lynx, short tail wagging, unpleased.

She is still moving, still matching him step by step. He has no way of telling whether she means to attack or to simply escort him off the property, and he does not want to turn his back to her as a way of finding out. Another step, soft pine needles under his feet. Another step, wide paws soundlessly forward trough the undergrowth. He is waiting for her to look away, has read somewhere that animals will, in the end, avert human eyes. Not this cat. Her eyes hold his, steadily taking him in, absorbing him. There is no thought in those eyes, no wondering who he might be, where he might have come from, or what brought him to these parts of the woods. Her eyes hold nothing but taking in, seeing, seeing. And following. A foot back, a paw forward. There is only seeing in those eyes, only moving in those feet, in those paws, his back, hers forward, his back, hers forward.

Then she, too, reaches the path, and stops. So it was an escort. He hopes. She does not sit down, though, just stands there, four wide paws, four tensed legs, at the ready. But she does remain while he still retreats. Her eyes are still on his, willing him away, making sure. One more step back, she stays. One more, she stays. He turns and walks. Four measured steps before he quickly looks back over his shoulder to make sure she’s not come for him now with his back turned.

For all he can see he is alone in the forest. He runs the rest of the way back to his tent, lifted again and again by elation, his feet turned to air with visceral joy. Alive.

Thoughts? I'd like to hear them.
Ulf Wolf

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