I Will Be The Lion

I will be the Lion

By G. Sanders

From my hospital bed in St. Mary’s, I can see Humboldt Park. It’s a clear summer day and I long to be out there, under the oaks, lying on a blanket on the dusty city grass next to the baseball field. I could listen to families cheer on their dads, uncles, and cousins as they play and smell the greasy taco trucks, but I’m in here. I listen to the beep of my own heartbeat and nurses’ chatter, smelling the sterile smell of hospital disinfectant.

I close my eyes and try not to panic. “One day,” I tell myself, “Don’t worry. One day you’ll be out in the sun again.”

With my eyes still closed, I begin to daydream. I see myself as strong, standing on two feet with my face tilted towards the sun. Maybe I should have been a tree. That way, the right amount of sun and water would be all I needed to heal myself. I could be naked and no one would say anything about it. Nakedness has never been something I’ve been afraid of. My too-skinny eighteen-year-old body looks so great that people always say I should model. They don’t know that, on the inside, my body is falling apart. Too much of this, too little of that. The proper chemicals that everyone else has in their bodies are all messed up in mine. I should have been a tree.

But in my dream, that doesn’t matter. I am the strong one. So I don’t want any of my siblings around for this dream. Who should be here? Gogo and Lanni? She is old and wise, and he worships her as he should. They have always pointed out my strengths. They will need me to be strong for them. Now, who else… Let’s toss in my neighbors. Mr. and Mrs. Gorski and their three children are all fair-skinned and blond with blue eyes. They are very tall but mostly skinny. Their oldest, Thomas, is fifteen. He just had a growth spurt that sprouted him above six feet. Mila is ten and wants to do everything I do. And sweet Ben is five. I remember holding him when he was just born.

I want these people in my dream because if I wasn’t sick, I would take charge. Gogo says I am a natural leader. I want to be more than that. I want to be a fearless leader. More than that, I want to be feared. I want to be feral, not frail. I want to do more than survive; I want to thrive, to dominate.

The rush of my dream sweeps us far away to the savannas of southeast Africa, to a time long ago with no electricity or modern conveniences—just us and the land, full of life. Tawny grass, dust, and rocks fill the ground with a few bushy trees to break the flat landscape. Cactus and toothbrush trees stand taller. Weaver birds, hornbills, and oxpeckers fill the trees with nests and noise. I want the challenge. Like in those shows I watch with Lonni, we arrive naked and confused.

Mrs. Gorski screams first, covering herself. “What is this?”

“Where are we?” Lonni pales.

“Marika!” Mr. Gorski scurries to his wife to shield her.

Mila cries, “Mommy!”

Ben squats in the dirt near my feet, perfectly content, studying the new rocks he’s found.

Thomas’ eyes are glued to me. His face lights up like a red stoplight.

Gogo takes a deep breath and lets out a long sigh.

I stand unflinching with my hands on my hips, surveying the landscape. “Everyone, calm down.” Their heads snap to attention. “I don’t know how we got here or why we’re here, but we need to remain calm.” I take a deep breath in and let it out slowly. Mila and her mother mirror my motion. Ben stays focused on the rocks.

Looking at Lonni, I ask, “We should focus on shelter first, right?”

Lonni and Mr. Gorski fall into step; a large machete appears in Lonni’s hand and an ax in Mr. Gorski’s. I trust them to find a good spot, clear it out, and create something to keep us safe. They will need shelter from the sun. Gogo and I have that type of brown skin that never gets burned by the sun.

Mrs. Gorski, Gogo, and the little ones go off to look for firewood. Knowing Gogo, she will probably find fruits, nuts, and berries as she goes. She will teach the children what is good to eat. She knows we will be here a long time. A cooking pot appears in her hand and a knife in Mrs. Gorski’s, just in case.

Thomas follows me to look for water. He is quiet, like his parents, so I don’t mind him. He is a nice boy; a boy I don’t have to be afraid of, a boy who listens to me when I tell him to do something. Maybe what I mean is, he is respectful of me, and of people in general. He is a good person. A net appears in his hand and a spear in mine.

I follow my nose. The earth smells dry to the south but cooler, like clay, to the north. The sounds of life are louder that way. I hear what I think is the braying of zebras and the grunts of ostriches. It does not take us long to find the water. Our long legs can cover a mile easily. Thomas plays soccer, basketball, and baseball in real life. I am the best at every sport in this life.

As we near the water, we slow down. I crouch, and Thomas crouches next to me. With the cover of the tall grass, we observe the watering hole, teaming with life. Crowned cranes, yellow-billed storks, pink flamingos, and black-headed herons squawk and call. Warthogs scurry around in the mud. Zebras dip their heads to drink. Impalas skip around and play. So much vibrancy and vitality surround the waters, it takes my breath away.

If I were back in real life, I would be content to sit and watch this scene. However, I am different here in the savanna. My mouth waters at the bountiful cornucopia. I stand slowly but with a confidence that says, “I belong here.” Thomas trails behind me, fear clear in his eyes as he watches the wild animals.

We sit in the mud and I instruct him to roll around until he is covered from head to toe. I smear mud on his cheeks and on his eyebrows to protect his eyes from the sun. As he does the same for me, I catch movement in my peripherals. The lumpy back of a crocodile peeks out of the water. I nod over to it and Thomas sees it too. “Be wary of those,” I say. Then I nod at the Zebras, “not those.”

He gives me a sarcastic laugh. “Everything here could kill us.”

“But we can also kill everything.” My face lights up with a smile.

He probably sees the crazy in my eyes, but I don’t care. This is my dream. I will kill whatever I want. To emphasize that, I pluck a turtle from the mud and squeeze its tiny neck. Thomas watches me do it with his eyebrows scrunched together and his lips tight, holding his breath as if I am choking the life out of him.

“Grab some more.” I toss the turtle to him and begin my search for more easy prey.

We find our way back to our camp by the tracks we left in the dirt and the few landmark trees distinguishable from the grass. Lonni and Mr. Gorski have been piling thorny shrubs around a cluster of toothbrush trees to make a wall meant to deter lions. Gogo has a pile of fruits and nuts set next to a tree. Mila and Ben are knee-deep in a hole they are digging and covered in dry dirt.

“We found water not far away,” I declare and drop two turtles next to Mrs. Gorski, who is working on a fire.

“Not too close?” Lonni asks. It would be dangerous to be close to so much life.

I nod and say, “The little ones should stay away.” Shovels appear in Mila and Ben’s hands.

Thomas sits next to his mother and hands her two more turtles. “There were crocodiles.”

I pick up the bucket and head out. “I will get some water.”

“Should you go alone?” Mrs. Gorski worries.

“I’ll be fine.” I shrug.

By the time I come back, they have begun gathering grass and tying together bundles for beds. Lonni is saying, “We can worry about a roof tomorrow. It will not rain anytime soon.” They are all covered in mud from the well the little ones dug. The silt-clouded water will take time to settle, but it will be better than drinking water from the lake. Gogo takes the water from me to boil it. The turtles are roasting over the fire and I lay down to sleep.

***

Back in the hospital, a nurse has come to take more of my blood. If I were a maple tree, it would be syrup filling the syringe. She would dip her finger in the sugar of my veins to taste its sweetness. Is that why they take my blood? Do they test it in their labs only to come back complaining of its bitterness? “This is all wrong; it is not sweet enough.” I would apologize, but I am not a maple tree.

***

That probably didn’t make any sense. The savanna makes more sense. Should we use the turtle shells as hats? Bowls? Bras? Gogo has woven grasses together to make coverings for us. Mrs. Gorski helps her. Mila learns too but I don’t want to. I don’t care if I am naked or covered.

Instead, I venture south. I find craggy hills of rock, spires of striated stone, and the beginnings of a desert. The hyenas’ laugh warns me to go back. Hyenas give me the creeps. I turn on my heel and see a lion crouching in the grass. I hunker down to mirror him. He is too skinny. He must be all alone. His eyes are dull and his coat is grey. He is weak and pathetic.

I stand and look down my nose at him. I could kill him, but why waste my time? The hyenas will get him come nightfall. I turn my back on him and march towards camp.

On the way home, I step over a great anaconda. The middle of it is wider than my thigh. The slow-moving snake must be sleeping while digesting something big. A few steps later, I find the head of it and drive my spear through it. At the same moment, I hear a shriek of fear. I shoot up to my full height to try and see over the grass. Leaving the snake, I run towards the camp. A gut-curdling scream and cries of immeasurable pain lead me east a bit. Thomas and his father are running too. Lonni is not far behind them. We speed towards the screams.

“Marika!” Mr. Gorski shouts as his wife comes into view.

A lion's face, red with blood, looks up at us from its kill. Mrs. Gorski lay on the ground, eyes glazed over, chest rising and falling in fractions, the air whistling in and out of her bloodied chest. There are wretched claw marks across her bosom. Pools of red fill the ground around her. One of her arms is already gone. Movement catches our eyes near her. Another lion is chewing on a leg that was ripped from her body.

Mr. Gorski charges, blind with rage. I charge with him, feeling his pain. His pain is her pain; the sting of life being torn away; the loss of his love. The hopeless pit in his heart is as black as her blank stare. He roars, and I roar with him, ax and spear raised to attack. The lions cower, their ears tuck back and their hackles rise. They take the leg and skitter into the tall grass.

Mr. Gorski skids to a stop. His feet splashed in his wife’s blood. The sticky thickness of it is so unlike water that it shocks me. I do not want to see him mourn her. My eyes flick to Thomas. His jaw is set and he stares at the tracks the lions have left, the trail of blood too easy to follow.

Without any words, we dash into the grass. Lonni shouts after us, but we ignore him. Suddenly, it is dark. The night sky is blank of the stars that should have lit our way. Only a sliver of the moon arching upside-down and opposite from the moon we know hangs in the black space above us, reflecting in the drops of blood that lead us on.

We run and run without heeding the thorns that pierce our feet and slash at our ankles. In the distance, we see a crop of boulders. Two lean against each other. Lionesses come in and out of the den. There are at least ten of them. Cubs roll around in the dust and play-wrestle.

We do not stop. We charge ahead, and before we realize it, the ground is no longer beneath our feet. We propel forward and splash into the dark waters of a river that had been invisible before, hidden by another outcropping of rocks.

The shock makes Thomas let go of his net and we become tangled in it, thrashing in the water, not knowing which way is up. Enormous shapes swim past us, and for the first time, fear jolts through me. Thomas makes it to the surface first and pulls me along with him. My mouth breaks free of the water, gasping for breath under the net, but my eyes bulge in terror.

A mouth big enough to crush both of us is open and lunging toward us. Thomas’ scream is choked back to a gargle as water splashes down his throat. The hippo’s jaw comes crashing down. My head smacks against Thomas’ while our limbs are cut off from the rest of us. The creature’s tongue slides around us as oxygen is smothered out of our lungs. Water and saliva fill my nostrils. I taste the iron of blood. Thomas lets out a pitiful whimper.

***

“I’m sorry,” I whisper to no one. It is dark in my hospital room. The sky outside is the weird pinky orange of city smog. No stars. Not even the moon. I take a deep breath to steady myself. That did not go as planned.

The syrup nurse knocks lightly on my door. “Oh, you are awake,” she says. She smiles and shakes a paper cup full of meds like a maraca. In her other hand is a pre-packaged cup of apple juice. The only perk to hospitals—unlimited juice.

“How did my blood taste?” I ask.

She frowns, not because she noticed what I said, but because, “They were not too great.”

I take my meds, drink my juice, and close my eyes.

***

Back at our camp, I remember the anaconda. Everyone is quiet. Mr. Gorski has been scolding Thomas for running off and not helping to bury his mother. Mila has curled up with Gogo; they both have tears in their eyes. Ben is playing with the turtle shells, stacking them, and knocking them down.

I sneak off. Marika, Mrs. Gorski, was only thirty. Her husband married her in Poland when he found out about Thomas, and they moved to Chicago, away from the shame. They are both strong but quiet: Marika, carrying shame with her everywhere, and her husband, carrying the weight of the world. Why does she stay dead in this dream?

I shake the thought. It doesn’t matter. On my way back, I pass the spot where she was killed. A dark pool of blood has attracted all sorts of varmints. Flies, crows, jackals, and vultures circle high above; butterflies flutter around and dip their proboscises into the thickening liquid. It is their fault. It is their idea. I go to the pool, kneel down, dip my fingers in the red, bring them to my lips, and taste.

The sky is red around me. The grass is shimmering gold. The crows and vultures’ black feathers scatter around. The jackals and butterflies are white like ghosts. The flies buzz in a chorus of vibrations that makes me dizzy. But more dizzying is the sweetness that dances on my tongue. The buzzing turns to rustling. The sound of the wind shaking autumn trees fills my ears. Dying leaves fall from the crimson sky, slowly, like ashes. My lips prickle and begin to go numb. My fingers burn and I look down at my hand to see my skin going pale; paler than pale, white, like the jackals and butterflies. A low rumble sounds like thunder. I turn my eyes to the sky and see nothing but the leaves. My eyes track one as it lands in the pool of blood, and I realize it belongs to a maple. The thunder roars again. I lift my gaze and see him on the other side: the too skinny lion with his ashen mane and dead eyes.

***

I wake up with a start. Something about that lion told me, “Be afraid.” I grind my teeth. I will not be intimidated. Anger boils up in my stomach. I toss a cup of apple juice across the room and it splashes across paper pumpkins and witches. My fury warms my cheeks and speeds up my breathing. I am not some weak little mouse to scurry away. I will not be swallowed whole. I will cut, and bite, and claw.

My chest tightens and I remember I am not supposed to breathe so fast and heavy. I am not supposed to get stressed out. But that only makes me angrier. My stupid syrup blood doesn’t work. My stupid heart doesn’t work. My stupid—

***

Thomas watches me with the grim eyes of a soldier after a battle. A turtle shell sits on his head like a helmet. “Where were you?” He asks. Tear streaks cut through the mud caked on his cheeks. He looks as if he’s aged ten years. Blood is splattered across his chest. His blond hair has been stained pink. He sits on a rock and leans his bruised forehead on his hands, which grasp the end of Lonni’s machete.

“Where were you?” He repeats, and a hazy scene plays around him.

The lionesses came back, all ten of them with their male. They attacked the camp at night. They stalked around the circle of trees, licking their lips and letting out low rolling growls. Lonni and Thomas set the wall of thorns on fire, but the lions did not back away. Some crouched down and wove their way under the flaming branches. Others charged at the wall of flames and leaped over it.

Trapped inside with the lions, they did not stand a chance. Gogo scrambled to get the little ones up into the trees, but the branches were covered in thorns that dug into their soft flesh. Thomas’ father screamed at him to take the children higher up in the tree, but there were three lions between him and Gogo. Mr. Gorski and Lonni did their best to fight off the pride, but they were soon overwhelmed. Claws tore into their backs, and they were pulled to the ground. Their final screams to their loved ones were silenced by sharp teeth tearing their throats.

Gogo pushed the children higher and tried to lift herself up onto a branch, but the lions made quick work of her too. They filled their mouths with her legs and pulled her back to the ground. Her hands and arms were torn free from the thorns. She whispered her apologies to the children who screamed and cried in pure terror.

Mila clung to Ben and Thomas could not look as a young lioness leaped into the tree. Sweat, urine, and blood dripped from his younger siblings as their wide eyes begged to be rescued. Thomas had scurried up a tree himself and was swinging the machete at any lions that tried to climb and get at him. He heard a thud, and the little ones stopped crying. He did not look. He refused to look.

Eventually, the lions gave up on Thomas. Their bellies were full. They dragged the rest of their kills off, and the night was quiet, save for the burn and crackle of the fire that surrounded the destroyed camp.

I see all of that in the shadows of Thomas’ eyes. His raw trauma has paralyzed him. “Where were you?” The question is an accusation and I don’t have an answer.

The blood is everywhere; pools, sprinkles, splashes, and trickles. I walk over to one of the trees. Black congealed goo sticks to the thorns as if the tree is weeping poison. I pinch my fingers around a spike and pull away a thick glob. It clings to the tree and leaves a tail that gets longer and thinner as I pull until it is a wisp of hair that trails down my finger. I think it’s taffy, but when I put it to my lips, it is maple syrup. The tree trembles and leaves fall from its branches—maple leaves. One glides down and sticks to the blood taffy.

I am sick. It is something he already knows in real life and maybe in this dream as well. He must be disgusted with me, but no. He looks at me like I will solve all of his problems. He looks at me like I will go out and kill all those lions to get revenge. I look at him like he is food.

“Let’s go,” I say, and start walking. “I have a plan.”

The lions will not be hungry after their feast, so we cannot tempt them with food. We must find another way to lure them, another way to hurt them. I walk into their den. Thomas stays back, too afraid to enter the lair. The pride is sound asleep, still digesting our families. I thought I might have to sneak, but not one of them even stirs. Maybe it is because they are tired, or maybe it is because they know that I am one of them. I take what I need and go.

Thomas and I carry a heavy bundle of fur tucked in his net up to the cliff we fell from, above the hippo river. The lion cubs are all awake now, mulling and snarling in high-pitched meows. Thomas helps me tie them up. Then we fling them over the cliff and anchor the net to a rock near the edge.

The cubs call to their mothers, and we run for cover. The lionesses stir awake and come running to their babies. The water begins to thrash below. Hippos and crocodiles rise to the surface. Crocodiles jump and snap at the net. The lions roar and pace the edge of the cliff. One tries to climb down, but slips and plummets to the jaws below. The water turns red. The lions roar and claw at the rope, only to fray it until it snaps and the cubs are dropped into the water. In their anguish, some jump in after them, their peers trying to stop them only to be dragged down with them. With only a few left, Thomas and I charge out of hiding, ramming ourselves against the lionesses’ backsides and tumbling them into the red froth below.

We stand above them at the edge of the cliff as the frenzy continues. Thomas watches the water. I watch him. Was this what he wanted? He feels my eyes on him and turns to face me.

“Can we go home now?”

“Yeah,” I shove him over the cliff.

I am in a bad mood. Nothing feels right. Agitated, I want everything to shut up. None of this was supposed to play out like this. I wanted to be the hero. I wanted to be the strong one. This dream is stupid.

I march down the hill and everything fades away to blackness. Everything except the lion’s den. I stomp my feet as loud as I can and shout, “Hey you in there! Wake up!” I am angry that the male lion did not come to save his babies. I am angry that he let all the women and children die when he had killed so many. I bang the head of my spear against an iron shield that appeared on my arm. The mud and blood on my face and arms arrange into patterns of war paint.

“Ay!” I bellow, and he finally gets up. The sound of bones clanking on rock rattles through the air. He stands at the mouth of his cave and regards me with boredom, his golden coat shimmering. The muscles in his chest and forelegs flex and stretch as he lets out a slow yawn and arches his back.

“I will eat your heart and wear your coat,” I hiss.

He rushes me without warning, and I dodge his claws by leaping to the right. The flash of his teeth is elating. He slows to a stop and turns to attack again. This time, I charge at him, roaring as I drive my spear into his side. He cries out in pain and raises his paw to slash at me, but I catch the blow with my shield. I rip my spear from his side, spin around, and cut at his face. He jumps to pounce, but I lift my spear and drive it through his heart.

Blood spills from his mouth and over my face. His claws slash at my shoulders, tearing through my muscles and catching on bone. Our blood mixes in the dirt. Our eyes lock as the life drains from him. I stare and stare until tears fall down my cheeks. “You’re lucky,” I whisper. “I would rather die like this than in a hospital.”

I get up and sit beside him to watch the heavens spin. The stars turn to leaves, and the leaves turn to ash. No, not ash… snow. A shiver runs through me. I cut the lion from his coat and wrap myself in his still-warm skin, my hands in his paws and my head under his chin. The world is grey now, dim and quiet. And I begin to wander.

Days and nights and nights and days pass. I walk upright and on all fours. I forget about my family. I forget about my pride. I eat crickets and mice and snake my way through the tall grass. The grass is grey, my coat is grey, and my skin is grey. The camp is nothing but a pile of grey ash. The watering hole is dried up. There is only grey earth and grey sky.

I wander and find the beginning of the desert, and there, standing tall and strong as a tree— a woman. Her dark coils have a healthy shine. Her skin is smooth and glowing maple brown. Her muscles curve and add to her beauty. That was what I wanted. She looks at me with pity, and I begin to weep.

***

“You get to go home today.” The nurse cheers as she opens my blinds.

I watch the snow for a long moment before drying my eyes. My tears streak my hand and I realize it isn’t grey. There are no black stains of old blood or fresh red. There is only my smooth maple skin, and I let myself smile.