Invisible Beasts Read Online Free PDF Page B

embarrasses me, though, since without proper scientific study, I have no proof that the Pluricorn is a deer at all. Marco Polo once wrote a fine description of a unicorn that he’d actually seen, which happened to be a rhinoceros. For all I know, the Pluricorn is a very unusual crab. Science alone can settle this question. Tempting as it is to throw up one’s hands, however, I cannot leave the subject without an educated guess. I would guess that the Pluricorn is struggling down a rough evolutionary road, having taken an unlucky turn a long time ago. Here is a plausible scenario.
    Imagine an autumn day in the Pleistocene epoch, steamy with thunderstorms. Male Cervidae are in a mood to spar and mate. In sight of the does, two lusty young Pluricorns square off. They paw, snort, and charge each other like jousting knights. The does’ ears flicker like the sleeves of medieval ladies-in-waiting. Some time elapses. After a while the does trot delicately into a circle around the males. The two champions are lying on the ground completely tangled up, heaving and trying to snort, tusks Velcroed to tusks, antlers locked, leg spurs enmeshed, and barbs, well, just adding to the mess. Some hours pass like this. Lightning crackles, rain sluices down, the males glare pitifully from their mutual fetters. Meanwhile, the houri-eyed does stand about in the rising mists of the afternoon,nostrils aquiver, absorbing a message from their genes. It says that these rutting males are not the only rutting males in the Pleistocene. And away trip the does, to interbreed with strangers and dilute their gene pool. The few who don’t, pass on to their offspring a gift for quiet desperation—the trait I now observe in poor hungry males among the hawthorns.
    Some concrete evidence for this scenario comes from Pleistocene cave art, made by the Keen-Ears. In these paintings, herds of thorny-looking quadrupeds slant across the limestone. Following them are hominid hunters, leaning on their spears in a peculiarly pensive manner, which no one, who has seen and pitied the Pluricorn, can possibly mistake.

5

    W hen people in my part of the world think of Truth, with a capital T, it conjures images of hands on Bibles, mathematical equations, or a pure unearthly light that pierces through all lies and obscurities. Truth is close in our imaginations to God, so we don’t associate it with anything that creeps, flies, swims, or walks the earth in animal form. But personally, I wouldn’t bother with the Bible if I could swear on a vampire bat .

    Truth Bats

    P EOPLE RARELY DISCUSS how one’s voice changes after telling a lie, because no one wants to admit to falsehood. I will confess, however, that I once told my sister a premeditated, consequential lie. My voice changed instantly: my small-talk became robotic, my heartfelt words sounded plagiarized, and even phrases muttered to myself had a disingenuous tone. Like everyone whose voice is deserted by the “ring of truth,” I had lost my bats. We owe the ring of truth in the human voice to Truth Bats, an invisible subspecies of vampire bat, and thereby hangs (upside down) the tale of how I was inspired to write this book.
    Vampire bats are a superior species, surpassing humans in their altruism and their ability to tell truth from lies. Consider: a vampire bat must feed every couple of days, or die. When a bat’s hunting goes badly, though, it doesn’t worry—it can turn to the luckier bats hanging with it, upside down, from a roost. The hungry bat visits each, emitting a begging call, and the others disgorge a donation of blood so their friend won’t starve. But since thesavvy bats also recognize voices, they know who is begging, and if a hungry bat has not helped other bats in the past, it is unlikely to receive charity. This is the Golden Rule, with teeth. Who wants to regurgitate hard-earned blood to someone who’ll ignore you the next time you’re in