I was walking through my garden the other day, and bent down to look and see if any of the squash was ready to pick. As I pushed the leaf aside, I saw a little gray, scaly head looking up at me. It might have been a lizard, but I saw the S-curve that made me believe it was a garden snake of some sort, so I let the leaf drop back in place, and went inside to get my husband. A few minutes of investigation on his part showed that, whatever it was, it had gone. Nonetheless, I put my shoes on before I went out to the garden again.
That experience provided the inspiration for this short story. If you sit outside on a quiet day in late summer, you might be able to see the same things.
The Watcher
Large droplets of dew slowly made their way in crooked trails down the enormous squash leaf overhanging the edge of the garden, while long fingers of mist pulled the fog into the yard from the valley below. He sat there under the umbrella of leaves as he waited, observing the activity in the damp yard just beyond his den. It was a great spot from which to watch, shaded from the hot sun for most of the day, and hidden from keen eyes that searched the garden for invaders.
It was early still; the sun was very low behind the mountains, low enough to share the heavens with the moon as it made its descent from the sky, exchanging the watch for some long hours of rest until it was time to rise again in the evening. Beyond the valley, the low rumble of the freeway could be heard, gradually increasing in volume as the traffic grew heavier.
The fog was heavy enough to obscure his vision beyond a few feet, but he knew exactly what was happening from the sounds that reached his tiny ears. The hawk was already up for its morning soar, gliding in lazy circles above the trees, while scanning the grass below for any sign of rabbit, mouse, or other small animal that might make a tasty breakfast. So far it had found nothing, but Hawk was, at the very least, patient. Eventually, something would have to move and it would have its meal.
There was a murder of crows gathering in the trees just beyond the wrought iron fence. They were so predictable, he thought. After all, they gathered there every morning with such a cacophony of noise that many of the other residents in the area complained about the interruption of their sleep. It had been especially noisy yesterday, when the band of coyotes had wandered over and sat under the tree. The crows had become so agitated by the presence of the coyotes that they had begun frantically hopping up and down on the branches, screaming in their rough, brash voices. One of their number had fallen to the ground in the frenzy, and was quickly killed by one of the coyote. He chuckled at the thought – one of the murder had been murdered. Then he stopped and chided himself for his insensitivity. It wasn’t that he was happy it had been killed. He just didn’t really like the crows; they were large, ugly, and obnoxious. Well, maybe not that ugly, but definitely obnoxious!
As he thought to himself, a covey of quail burst from their home under the bougainvillea to quickly make their way across the lawn and beyond the fence. A few of the adults went first, then stopped and turned to encourage the young ones to follow. Two more adults brought up the rear, and he watched as the group of a dozen or more waddled and weaved along an imaginary crooked line, bobbing their heads in such a way that the funny curl at the top of their heads bounced up and down, making them appear even more comical. This was his favorite part of the day; what could be more amusing than watching the quail on their morning dash?
As the sun climbed higher in the sky, the dewdrops evaporated, and the sun’s rays sought more moisture. The leaves all around him gasped and wilted in the stifling heat, shrinking his protective camouflage. He shrank too, making sure that he was still hidden from view.
Above his head, a large hornworm caterpillar came out of his hiding place under the tomato leaves. It was a beautiful shade of green with diagonal white stripes across its thick body, and a long, sharp, red thorn on its hindquarters. This one was large and had managed to consume nearly a third of the tomato plant. As it began to run out of leaves, it had started on the fruit, leaving great shaved scars for the woman to find. She wouldn’t find the worm quite so beautiful, if she found it at all. It was entirely possible that the mourning dove would find it first. The dove kept a careful watch from under the lemon tree, and it was only a matter of time before the hornworm was discovered. He had seen many of the other caterpillars disappear into the dove’s beak as they emerged carelessly from their hiding places in the morning. He wondered if the woman realized what a helper she had in the dove. He turned his attention back to the caterpillar, watching, mesmerized, as it moved down the stalk of the plant, its body undulating in a stretch to move forward, only to shrink again as its hind legs worked to catch up with those in front.
A leaf crackled, and he looked quickly to his right. A small lizard was staring back at him, frozen, as if it thought that if it didn’t move, it couldn’t be seen. They both sat there, immobile, for a few minutes, until the lizard decided it was safe and darted off to another part of the garden.
Eventually, he heard the unnatural sound of the glass door as it slid open along a metal track. This was followed by the soft padding of four feet as the dog made her way outside to take care of her morning business. When that was done, she turned and headed toward the garden to make her rounds, nose to the ground as she sniffed to identify the intruders who had visited during the night. She encountered the mouse trail first, and followed it over to the back corner where she stood for a few minutes, glaring beyond the fence where the mouse had both entered and escaped as if to convey a threat strong enough to frighten the mice into staying away. When she was satisfied that her message was received, she turned and headed back down the trail, searching for other intruders in the hopes that she might be able to find one left in the garden and at least get a good chase out of it.
When the red squirrel began to make its way across the tightrope of a fence, she stopped in mid-sniff and raised her head, giving a piercing look directly at the squirrel, who stopped mid-step and froze, three feet on the fence and one in the air, tail in an S-curve to maintain balance. It was a momentary standoff until the squirrel regained enough composure to finish its step, triggering the chase. Barking unceasingly while she ran, she followed the fence line as far as she could, until the squirrel, only two steps ahead and three feet above the dog’s head, leapt into the bougainvillea and disappeared into the pretty pink flowers that lined thorny branches. She stood there, on guard again, glaring into the bush. Same message. Stay Away! Then she heard the muffled call of “Breakfast!” beyond the glass doors, and she padded back inside the house.
Breakfast, indeed, he thought, and he continued to stare out into the yard beyond the tall grasses that hid him. He would stay under the squash leaf all day, all night, and again through the days that followed, just watching. His colors would begin to fade with the many showers from the sprinklers that gave the garden its needed water. He would eventually begin to crack from the exposure to the heat, water, fog, dirt, and spider webs. One day, perhaps someone would discover him sitting there. Until then, he would watch.