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Authors: Laura Resau
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paths.”
Wendell brandishes his machete. “And then we hack through the jungle?”
“Right,” I say, grinning. “Indiana Jones–style.”
Once we start, I realize we’ve got our work cut out for us. Our property is big, mostly forested, with a strip of land on the sea cliffs. On the map it looks like a square piece of cake with a large bite taken out of it—our mysterious neighbor’s property. The Forbidden Territory.
First we do the circle, unraveling the twine and staking it every so often. After a couple of hours of hacking through underbrush and tying twine, we’re at the end of the last ray. That’s when we encounter the sign reading ¡SE DEVORAN LOS INTRUSOS! TRESPASSERS WILL BE DEVOURED!
“Great,”
I mutter.
Wendell pauses, letting the machete fall to his side. The novelty of the tool has worn off, and now he rubs hisshoulder, looking exhausted. I wipe sweat from my forehead, examining the blisters forming on my palm.
“Here, Z.” He passes the water bottle to me, and I drink, then squirt my neck and arms to cool off. I open my notebook to the sketch, orienting myself.
Reluctantly, I look back at the sign. “The path should end right about there. At the sign.”
“We could just make the path shorter,” Wendell suggests.
I close my notebook firmly, shaking my head. “Every path from the center has to be the same length. Anyway, having a weird, scary sign within view isn’t part of my vision.”
Wendell considers this. “We could cover it with branches so the guests don’t get freaked out. Or,” he says, in a mock-serious voice, “perhaps we could replace it with a more politely worded sign, something like, ‘The management would be grateful if you kindly refrained from wandering beyond this point to avoid risk of unpleasant demise. Thank you.’ ”
I laugh. “And you could paint it with cheery hearts and flowers.” I survey the sign, wishing I could just chop it down with my machete. “This is crazy, Wendell. We’ve been here for weeks. And we don’t even know our neighbors.” Bracing myself, I take a step past the sign. “I’m going to meet them.”
Wendell steps beside me. “Um, I trust your instincts, Z, but …” He trails off.
“What?”
“Just don’t get us devoured, okay?”
“No unpleasant demise, Wendell. I promise.” I hold his hand, and together we take a few more tentative steps.
About five paces in, I hear it. A low, guttural growl. A noise like the one I heard the other evening, only softer. This close, I can tell it’s not from a motor or wave echoes. It’s from something alive. Something big.
Clutching my machete, I survey the trees. Movement, the rustle of leaves, a flash of black and yellow. Another growl, even closer.
Wendell tugs on my hand, backing up slowly. He mouths the words
let’s go
. I take a step backward as quietly as possible, with my machete poised in the air, ready to strike. At least I’m nimble with machetes. As a little kid in Guatemala, I used one to chop firewood and clear brush. But I’ve never used one on an animal.
I listen for another sound, but there’s only silence. I breathe out and take another step backward, gripping my weapon.
And then we see it. A large, sleek, spotted beast. Its jaws open wide, revealing pointed teeth. It’s some kind of wildcat. An enormous one.
Time slows. I see its muscular body lunge through the air. The solid, strong head; the smooth, gleaming fur, gold specked with black spots; the rippled legs stretched out; the sculpted haunches and waist like those of a moving, soaring statue. And rows of teeth like knives. A primal fear grips me, the terror of being prey of a bloodthirsty predator. It’s as if this creature has emerged straight from a childhood nightmare. And it’s headed straight for us.
Suddenly, there’s a loud clang. As if in slow motion, thewildcat drops to the jungle floor. My heart is booming, my entire body shaking. I look at Wendell, searching for some
Wendell brandishes his machete. “And then we hack through the jungle?”
“Right,” I say, grinning. “Indiana Jones–style.”
Once we start, I realize we’ve got our work cut out for us. Our property is big, mostly forested, with a strip of land on the sea cliffs. On the map it looks like a square piece of cake with a large bite taken out of it—our mysterious neighbor’s property. The Forbidden Territory.
First we do the circle, unraveling the twine and staking it every so often. After a couple of hours of hacking through underbrush and tying twine, we’re at the end of the last ray. That’s when we encounter the sign reading ¡SE DEVORAN LOS INTRUSOS! TRESPASSERS WILL BE DEVOURED!
“Great,”
I mutter.
Wendell pauses, letting the machete fall to his side. The novelty of the tool has worn off, and now he rubs hisshoulder, looking exhausted. I wipe sweat from my forehead, examining the blisters forming on my palm.
“Here, Z.” He passes the water bottle to me, and I drink, then squirt my neck and arms to cool off. I open my notebook to the sketch, orienting myself.
Reluctantly, I look back at the sign. “The path should end right about there. At the sign.”
“We could just make the path shorter,” Wendell suggests.
I close my notebook firmly, shaking my head. “Every path from the center has to be the same length. Anyway, having a weird, scary sign within view isn’t part of my vision.”
Wendell considers this. “We could cover it with branches so the guests don’t get freaked out. Or,” he says, in a mock-serious voice, “perhaps we could replace it with a more politely worded sign, something like, ‘The management would be grateful if you kindly refrained from wandering beyond this point to avoid risk of unpleasant demise. Thank you.’ ”
I laugh. “And you could paint it with cheery hearts and flowers.” I survey the sign, wishing I could just chop it down with my machete. “This is crazy, Wendell. We’ve been here for weeks. And we don’t even know our neighbors.” Bracing myself, I take a step past the sign. “I’m going to meet them.”
Wendell steps beside me. “Um, I trust your instincts, Z, but …” He trails off.
“What?”
“Just don’t get us devoured, okay?”
“No unpleasant demise, Wendell. I promise.” I hold his hand, and together we take a few more tentative steps.
About five paces in, I hear it. A low, guttural growl. A noise like the one I heard the other evening, only softer. This close, I can tell it’s not from a motor or wave echoes. It’s from something alive. Something big.
Clutching my machete, I survey the trees. Movement, the rustle of leaves, a flash of black and yellow. Another growl, even closer.
Wendell tugs on my hand, backing up slowly. He mouths the words
let’s go
. I take a step backward as quietly as possible, with my machete poised in the air, ready to strike. At least I’m nimble with machetes. As a little kid in Guatemala, I used one to chop firewood and clear brush. But I’ve never used one on an animal.
I listen for another sound, but there’s only silence. I breathe out and take another step backward, gripping my weapon.
And then we see it. A large, sleek, spotted beast. Its jaws open wide, revealing pointed teeth. It’s some kind of wildcat. An enormous one.
Time slows. I see its muscular body lunge through the air. The solid, strong head; the smooth, gleaming fur, gold specked with black spots; the rippled legs stretched out; the sculpted haunches and waist like those of a moving, soaring statue. And rows of teeth like knives. A primal fear grips me, the terror of being prey of a bloodthirsty predator. It’s as if this creature has emerged straight from a childhood nightmare. And it’s headed straight for us.
Suddenly, there’s a loud clang. As if in slow motion, thewildcat drops to the jungle floor. My heart is booming, my entire body shaking. I look at Wendell, searching for some
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