We Are Both Mammals (13 page)

Then I turned to Toro-a-Ba, who was lying
still, exactly as I had last seen him. I crouched, and knocked
softly with my knuckles on the wooden floor beside him. He lifted
his hands from his face and looked up at me.

“
Let’s go,” was all I
said, not meeting his gaze, knowing that my face was red and
tear-streaked. He said not a word, but followed me as I closed the
door behind us, locked it for the last time, and headed for the
elevator.

In the elevator, I wanted to thank him for
trying to give me a moment of solitude. All I could manage was a
gruff, “Thanks,” while regarding the opposite wall.

“
Peace be upon you,
Daniel,” he said softly in reply, after a moment’s hesitation;
which seems to be what thurga-a say when they need to say something
but do not know what it should be.

–––––––

All this happened two years ago.

It feels so long ago; and yet, in many ways,
it still feels like yesterday. Only yesterday, and if I could just
rewind the time by twenty-four hours or even twelve, perhaps I
could stop myself from going to work at the laboratories that
day.

I still cannot remember the accident. I
cannot even remember those moments that led me to this life; the
moments when everything changed.

My hair, half of which fell out a month
after we left the clinic, in reaction to the shock of the whole
ordeal, has at last regrown. Toro-a-Ba’s shaven fur regrew rapidly,
of course, and one cannot tell that there was ever a shaved patch
on him.

The scars, and the small tubes in my
abdomen, still ache and twinge occasionally.

I have learned to ignore the stares directed
at me as I walk down the street with my living life-support system
trotting alongside me like a pet dog.

I have forgotten what it feels like to be
normal; to blend in with the crowd, no one knowing my orphaned
past, nor the intimate details of my life.

A nurse, or sometimes one of the surgeons,
comes to visit us once a week, leaving me, at least, with the
curious and depressing feeling that I have some lifelong ailment
that requires perpetual monitoring from medical specialists.

On some days I feel almost hopeful; hopeful
that my life is still worth living and that I can still find
purpose and happiness; on other days, I am sunk in gloom, and it is
a struggle to hide this from Toro-a-Ba. In fact, if I am at all
honest with myself, I know that I can hide very little from
him.

To his credit, he rarely asks how I am.

I still step on him, bump into him or trip
over him occasionally, to my chagrin; and of course he instantly
forgives me, every time, even if I have hurt his sensitive snout or
trodden on his tail. If I stumble against him and fall, he is
always more concerned for me than for himself. If he steps on my
foot or bumps into my leg, he is apologetic, despite the fact that
such little collisions from a creature so much smaller than myself
are scarcely likely to cause me pain or even discomfort.

I cannot fathom his patience, and that
somehow makes me a little afraid.

I must admit that our house is beautiful. We
have kept furniture to a minimum, and spaced it so that we need not
worry overmuch about bumping into it or snagging our hose on it.
Toro-a-Ba and I have chosen simple, classically elegant furniture,
in earthy, calming, natural colours and textures. To my relief,
Toro-a-Ba is a naturally clean and tidy person, like me. We can
manage most of the housework and gardening ourselves, and whatever
we cannot do we hire others to do, and send the government the
bill. The trade-off for this is that we are occasionally summoned
– at the government’s expense – to attend medical symposiums
or other events where we may be studied and interviewed.
Frequently, at these events, we meet the surgeons who operated on
us, including Suva-a and Fong.

We have had two backpacks – one of
which is a spare – made to our specifications, with internal
pockets placed so that they will not annoy Toro-a-Ba. Thurga-a
naturally like to sleep in nests, so Toro-a-Ba is perfectly happy
to be carried in a backpack for what usually amounts to a few hours
per day. He has put a woollen blanket inside the backpack and he
often sleeps there while I do my share of the housework. He has
even learnt to sleep while I am jogging, which I have at last
become able to do again – even while carrying the now-familiar
weight of approximately six kilograms of thurga – if I am cautious
and do not strain. When we are out, I generally wear a belt bag so
that I can access my possessions without having to remove the
backpack and disturb Toro-a-Ba. The extra slumber is good for him,
since his body is working harder than usual to assist mine.
Alternatively, he uses his smartphone or tablet, reads, or listens
to music using headphones. It is entirely common for us to be
sitting side by side, reading, watching different films, or
listening to different music, typically with a cushion resting on
its edge between us. I use the cushion as an armrest, but I suspect
the cushion ends up there, in that position, because it acts as a
psychological barrier between us: we can pretend to ourselves that
we have some privacy because there is a small ‘wall’ separating
us.

The simple fact that Toro-a-Ba is always on
my right and I on his left causes some peculiar situations and
habits for us; for example, because the kitchen sink in our house
is on the left of the draining board, I invariably wash the dishes
while Toro-a-Ba dries them. Switching roles would be possible, but
physically awkward and potentially uncomfortable for both of
us.

As the nerves in our sides have regrown,
snagging the hose or tugging on it becomes more painful. Although
it is synthetic, it is part of us, and I for one am as protective
of it and anxious about it as I would be of any body part.

When it comes to moving together, we have
had to become very attuned to each other’s body language, always
alert to the tiny signals that indicate the decision to stand up,
to start walking, to sit in a particular position or on a
particular seat, to speed up, to slow down, to stop, to turn left
or right, to enter or exit or reverse … Every movement has become
deliberate and careful. We are constantly watching each other out
of the corners of our eyes. We have had to learn the perfect
distance to keep from each other: near enough to be able to move
quickly with the other, but not so close that we bump into each
other. We have also become very aware of our physical surroundings.
Anything, however trivial, that could foul the hose or cause one of
us to be pulled away from the other is a hazard. If either of us is
startled and steps back or starts to flee, he risks jerking the
hose or colliding with the other person. I have learned to grip the
hose with one hand when Toro-a-Ba makes a large leap, such as when
he jumps up onto something high, in order to control the movement
of the hose so that it does not tug on my side.

Never before have I paid so much attention
to the floor or to my feet. Toro-a-Ba, for his part, has to be
aware that I cannot always see him, since he is so far below my
line of sight, and he must behave almost like a human’s small pet
dog: always keeping close, but not too close, and being aware of
sudden relocation.

It can be exhausting. After a few hours of
moving around, both of us are pleased to sit still and relax for an
hour or two.

We have been able to complete a few small,
gentle hikes on the rolling hills around Runa-ii, with Toro-a-Ba
sometimes walking and climbing and sometimes resting in the
backpack; and I am hopeful that we will be able to complete more
strenuous ones in the future. If I could stand on a mountaintop,
even a low one, after all that I have survived, and after all that
has been done to me, I think I would feel …

Stronger.

Braver, perhaps. More powerful.

More real.

Toro-a-Ba has even managed to persuade me to
climb trees – extremely carefully – with him, so that he,
semi-arboreal mammal that he is, can at last feel branches under
his body again. The risk that one or other of us will slip and tear
the hose out of the other’s body is real: but, although in many
ways our ‘tetheredness’ is a disability, I have no intention of
living like one who is infirm. I for one am living on borrowed time
anyway, and Toro-a-Ba knew the risks when he volunteered.

Despite the fact that we have no real need
to, Toro-a-Ba and I agreed that we both wanted to work, if only
part-time. Leading a life of idleness and self-centredness suited
neither Toro-a-Ba’s mighty altruistic desires nor my distaste for
inefficacy. Toro-a-Ba suggested that we engage in volunteer work,
so we selected a bird sanctuary here in Kivi-a and are currently
volunteering there. We spend a lot of time cleaning out cages and
aviaries, but we also get to handle a few of the tamer birds, and
we have assisted with two releases of birds who were recovered
enough from their injuries to return to the wild.

As a laboratory technician, I find more
fascination in birds’ flight and anatomy than I thought I
would.

And there is something magnificent about
watching a creature that was damaged and broken take flight again,
reclaiming its freedom; to become its own master once more, and to
return to its home or find new territories. If such a thing was
denied to me, perhaps I can triumph vicariously.

As the months turn into years, I have come
to realise that the thurga to whom I am attached – the
creature who gave his life for mine – is the most
compassionate, most gentle personality I have ever met. There is a
most extraordinary tenderness and empathy in him; and there are
moments when, as he displays this quality, I am almost moved to
tears. If all the universe could be half as gentle and
compassionate as my thurga, there would be no more wars and no more
violence. ‘First, do no harm; second, do as much good as is in your
power’ seems to be the beginning and end of his credo. He hates no
one, bears no malice, and can scarcely conceive of acting
violently.

At the same time, he is mentally strong, and
will not be swayed in his convictions. He acts according to his
beliefs and his nature; and if firmness or defiance is required in
order to see good triumph, he will employ it; but when is firmness
ever required from one who is the soul of gentleness, and before
whose tender gaze the most aggressive, most sullen and bullying of
characters soften and bow like wilting flower-stems?

I have found that, in any confrontation or
dispute, it is wise to let him lead. I remain quiet while he speaks
softly and reasons. Of the two of us, the furry, large-cat-sized
quadruped is more powerful than the six-foot-tall human who walks
beside him.

I am thankful that he is so even-tempered,
patient, rational and serene. A flighty, talkative or very
emotional companion would be beyond my endurance.

I sometimes fear that he thinks I view him
as a necessary evil, and I try to ensure that I do not treat him
thus; but on the few occasions when I have tried to tell him that I
appreciate him and the magnitude of what he has done, my tongue
knots itself and sticks in my mouth.

Perhaps I will never have the words.

Toro-a-Ba’s family members have been very
welcoming and accepting. There is no hint from them that they are
shocked or repulsed by what Toro-a-Ba has done with his life, nor
disappointment that this is what he has condemned himself to. They
are calm, matter-of-fact and accepting where I can only imagine a
human family being shocked, horrified and repulsed. If anything,
they seem approving of Toro-a-Ba’s pioneering self-sacrifice. They
are gracious. They understand that I am part of Toro-a-Ba’s life
– indeed, part of Toro-a-Ba’s body – now, and that this
will most likely never change, and that I must necessarily,
therefore, be included in any plan or event that includes
Toro-a-Ba. For all practical purposes, I am ineluctably part of
their family.

Incidentally, Toro-a-Ba’s and my visit to
his family was the first time I heard Toro-a-Ba truly laugh. It
surprised me. I had heard thurga-a laugh before, but to hear that
deep-bellied, thrumming sound coming from Toro-a-Ba for the first
time in four months surprised me.

While Toro-a-Ba was lying in a hospital bed
beside me, his brother and that brother’s wife had a ‘litter’
– yes, that is the English equivalent of the Thurga-to word –
of three, so Toro-a-Ba is now an uncle. The cubs treat me for all
the world like another uncle, and now that they are old enough to
run around, they seem to delight in bouncing around on my lap like
kittens or puppies, playing around my feet, and climbing my back
and arms, often sitting on my shoulders with their soft, furry
little tails curled around my neck. It has been made very clear to
them by their parents and other older relatives that they must
never touch the hose that joins Toro-a-Ka and ‘Avari-Ka’, and they
obey. They will grow up finding it completely normal that Uncle
Toro-a and Uncle Avari are joined together, and that one of their
uncles is a human.

For my part, I can only say that it would be
a cold heart indeed that could not melt at the sight of thurga
children, especially when they scamper fearlessly over one’s lap
and then, weary from playing, fall asleep curled up with their
heads pillowed on one’s forearm.

I am closer to having a family than I have
ever been before.

–––––––

Thurga-a are invariably accepting of us, though
initially curious. Inquiring gazes and polite, respectful questions
come from them; and many times not, as they are largely content not
to inquire after what does not concern them. The stares, the
horrified reactions, the revulsion and astonishment, all come from
humans. And they are typically directed at me.