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Greg Friedman stumbled through rotting undergrowth somewhere in the Amazon, delirious with malaria. Vines tripped him, low branches tore at his skin, and his teeth chattered from the chills that wracked his fever soaked body. His world spun and the thick growth of leaves above him did a mad, swirling dance before darkness swallowed him.
He drifted up through chants and singing, recognizing some of it, but most of it sounded unintelligible. His body felt moist, yet cool and soothed. He opened his eyes and magnificent colors flashed in front of him. His vision sharpened and the brilliant feathered headdress and painted face of a shaman swam into focus.
Wet leaves and small plants covered his torso. A pleasant, spicy, cinnamon smell filled the air. His fever still burned, but the bed of herbs made him comfortable, wrapping him in a protective cocoon. A dark-haired Indian girl ladled water into his mouth. He drank greedily.
He had been in the jungle for three months gathering plants which might contain medicinal qualities that the University of California at San Diego hoped to use in their search for a cancer cure.
In spite of his sickness, he considered his present situation a stroke of luck. Who could know more about the medicinal properties of the local vegetation than a medicine man?
The shaman's chants rose in intensity. He made a series of strange gestures, then reached into a wooden bowl and pulled out a turtle. Its legs scrabbled at the air. When the shaman held it above Greg, he couldn't make out all of his words, but he understood most of what the priest said.
"The heart of the turtle is strong. Its spirit lives on after death. To call back the soul of my brother who wanders lost among the souls of the dead, I ask that you allow him to take on the life of the turtle."
The old man looked at Greg, his eyes searching for acknowledgement.
Greg’s stomach knotted, followed by a wave of dizziness. He thought of the herbs and how they helped him, then looked up at the turtle clawing at the air. His stomach said no. His mind said yes. His gaze drifted from the turtle to the priest’s. Their gazes locked and Greg nodded.
The shaman danced away making complex movements around Greg before burning a handful of herbs in the fire and kneeling on the ground. His chants settled into a low murmur. Holding the turtle at arm's length, he walked over to a stump, picked up a machete and held it next to the animal's head. The turtle retreated into its shell. The shaman raised the turtle and machete and brought them down hard on the stump as though splitting firewood.
A loud crack and the turtle cleaved neatly like a clam. The shaman jammed his fingers into one side of the shell, pulled out the crimson heart, and held it high above him.
Chanting louder, the shaman came to Greg’s side and jammed the beating heart into Greg's mouth. Greg choked as the organ throbbed in his mouth like a hard, pulsating rubber ball. Salty blood ran down his throat. He inhaled through his nose and bit into the still beating mass. Its strong pulses pushed his jaws apart. The rhythm of the heartbeat filled his senses. His jaws clenched tighter and tighter, then it exploded in a wash of coppery fluid that gushed against the back of his mouth. He gagged, then swallowed, still feeling movement as the chunks slid down his throat.
They felt unnaturally warm when they reached his belly. His stomach moved with the pulses as they filled him with their insistent beat. He realized with embarrassment, that he had an erection, then he closed his eyes and let the gentle rhythm wash over him. Sleep followed.
––––––––
He awoke feeling strong and rejuvenated. His fever had broken.
He stood on wobbly legs and wandered through the village, finding a small stream running by its edge. After washing, he went back to where he'd been lying and found a huge leaf heaped with food. He ate, then fell asleep.
He lived with the villagers for the next few months, learning their language and studying their habits. The old shaman told him of the village history and shared some of his healing knowledge, but whenever Greg asked about the turtle ritual, the shaman became silent.
Greg watched him perform the rite many times and committed to memory all the herbs used, the quantity and preparation. When he was sure he understood the procedure, he approached the priest.
"You may think you know the ritual, but it would not be wise to try it," the old man said in his native tongue. “If you make the smallest mistake, the spirit cannot be appeased. The only escape is in death, and even then you must outrun the spirit's anger. Forget all you have seen."
That night the Indians put on a huge feast. Greg ate his fill and soon found himself unable to keep his eyes open until the sound of a truck and the smell of diesel jolted him awake. He opened his eyes to daylight, the jungle at his back, his gear piled beside him on the edge of a bustling jungle town. Gone were the villagers, the shaman, and the serenity of the village.
––––––––
He went back to the university and received a hero's welcome. Nine months had passed since his disappearance and his unusual vigor from the turtle ceremony stayed with him. When the furor passed and the attention dwindled, Greg went back to his work in the Ethnobotany lab with far more insight into his work than he ever imagined.
He analyzed the herbs he collected, particularly the ones from the turtle ritual, but they showed no outstanding characteristics. He combined them exactly the way the old shaman had, and burnt them. Still nothing.
He continued working with the herbs for weeks, trying to discover any medicinal properties they might contain. Every attempt met with frustration, but he felt close, so he put in a requisition for undergraduate help.
Engrossed in his field notes one afternoon, he heard a knock.
"Come in," he muttered, not looking up from his note book.
"Dr. Friedman? I've come to apply for the lab assistant's job." The voice sounded young, female. The scent of her perfume filled him.
He peered over the top of his glasses. Big brown doe-like eyes met his. She had curly auburn hair, long, delicate eyelashes and a cute, button nose.
"My name's Sandy." She tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear and smiled. "Sandy Walker."
Greg gave her a quick appraisal. Tight jeans. Curves. Athletic. He felt the first tingles of arousal and realized that it had been a long time since he had any female contact. "What are your qualifications?"
"Biology major with a minor in chemistry."
"I see." He went back to his note book trying not to appear too interested. "Biology? Chemistry?"
"Yes." The words gushed from her. "Specializing in botany. More specifically rare South American species. That's why I applied. You're kind of famous. I read about how you got lost in the jungle and lived with the Indians. I'd be honored to work with you."
Greg looked up, smiling. "Report on Monday and I'll put you on for ninety days probation, then we’ll do an evaluation."
"Thank you, Dr. Friedman."
––––––––
They spent long hours in the lab working closely, analyzing his finds. Ninety days later, Greg offered her a permanent position and took her to dinner for a celebration.
They ate in silence, each sneaking peeks at the other. Sandy's hair
and gold earrings reflected the rose-colored candlelight and her eyes sparkled. The two bottles of wine they drank left Greg feeling warm and aroused.
"Would you like to come back to my place for a nightcap?" he said, feeling bold from the alcohol.
"I shouldn't really..."
"Just one."
"Well—okay."
By the time they reached Greg's, the effects of the alcohol had grown. Sandy tripped going through the front door and Greg caught her. She looked up at him, mild surprise in her eyes. He planted his mouth firmly on hers. She struggled briefly, then parted her lips, letting his tongue mingle with hers. Excitement raced through him while he pulled off her clothes, then she helped him with his. He took her in his arms and they fell back onto his couch.
"I want it," she said, spreading her legs. "Now."
The moment he entered her, he came.
Her expression cut through him. Scornful. She dressed and left without saying a word, leaving him alone with his feelings of inadequacy.
––––––––
The next day she acted as if nothing happened and left that afternoon with no mention of the previous night, making Greg yearn for her all the more, but she remained distant and aloof.
In spite of their uncomfortableness, their work continued to show promise. The secret of the healing the shaman gave him with the turtle heart seemed to be within his grasp. The following week, he interviewed for a second lab assistant. After a number of disappointing prospects, he found Brent Stafford, another undergraduate. Though his major was zoology, his interests included botany, chemistry, and the effects of plants on the mind and body.
Aside from his impeccable academic record, Brent excelled in sports. At six-foot-two he had a thick heavily muscled torso that V'd at the waist. His dark, curly hair and mischievous blue-eyes made him irresistible to Sandy.
Greg felt jealous when his assistants grew close, but he had never had students so dedicated. He couldn't let his personal feelings get in the way of his research, so he held his emotions in check and kept his professional demeanor, but still he burned for Sandy.
He lay awake nights, thinking of her creamy thighs, aching for another chance while cursing his inadequacy; particularly in light of Brent's physique and good looks.
His somber mood hung over him and his frustration grew. He went to the San Diego Zoo to see the new tiger exhibit one day. The animals in the zoo reminded him of the jungles where he had spent so much time and it helped him to think things through. He sensed he was close to mastering the secret of the turtle heart ritual and felt confident he could duplicate it.
Two adults and two tiger cubs occupied the pit. The cubs wrestled playfully in the corner of the den behind their sleeping mother, while the adult male prowled majestically back and forth, his sleek muscles moving with fluid tension beneath his shiny coat. Greg admired the cat's grace and strength.
One of the cubs tumbled into the female, waking her. She did a long cat-stretch, then sauntered toward the male, who turned when he saw her, then circled, sniffing at her hind quarters before mounting her in a savage act of reproduction.
The cat's intensity thrilled Greg. The memory of the mating tigers stayed with him, alternating with fantasies of he and Sandy. The two images played over and over in his mind, like an out of control, repeating video.
When he thought his brain would burst, he collected the plants he needed, stopped at the biology lab for a tranquilizer gun and drove to the zoo.
Sometime after midnight he cut through a lock at one of the back gates to the tiger's den where he saw the shadowy forms of the four cats in the moonlight. Taking careful aim with the tranquilizer gun, he squeezed off four shots in quick succession.
The two adults leaped and whirled, then ran a few steps before staggering and collapsing. One cub bolted halfway across the pit and collapsed, the second ran into a corner and crouched, hissing.
Greg slipped into the pit, cornered the remaining cub and tranquilized it, then collected the darts he had shot and left the zoo with the male cub slung over his shoulder. He laid out the tranquilized cub in a secluded spot by a stream in the woods in the mountains East of El Cajon. Reciting the chants he memorized, he lit a small fire and burned the herbs he needed, performing each move precisely as he had done in his mind thousands of times before.
Chanting low, he steeled himself and slit the tiger cub, running his
knife from the animal's groin to its throat. Sliding his hand under its ribs, he felt his way through the cat's entrails, finally reaching its still beating heart. The warm pulse of the organ gave him a strange thrill as his left hand closed around it.
Pushing the ribs apart, he gazed at the beating heart, exposed in the silvery predawn light. Its steady beat faltered.
Hurrying, he ripped it out with his knife, reciting the Indian prayer as he worked, then he thrust the beating mass into his mouth. The coppery smell of blood filled him while hot fluids ran down his chin onto his chest. Though larger, the cub's heart felt more tender than the turtle's. His jaws moved feverishly, devouring the meaty pulp.
When he finished, he buried the cub's remains, washed himself in the stream and drove home where he collapsed into a deep sleep.
He awoke instantly, his vision, hearing, and sense of smell acute; every sense peaked. He sat up blinking, then leaped out of bed. He felt stronger. Agile. His body sang with energy.
He spent the morning enjoying his heightened awareness, barely able to contain the energy sparking from him. When Sandy arrived that afternoon he called her into his office.
"I need to talk to you in private," he said as she came in the door. "Tonight."
"But, Dr. Friedman. It's Friday night..."
"It's very important."
She sighed. "I'll break my date with Brent."
––––––––
"Excuse me, Dr. Friedman," she said that night as they sat together on his couch sipping their third drink. "I've been very patient. You said you had something important to talk about."
"Yes. Well um—I've made a major breakthrough."
Her eyes lit up. "Really?" She leaned toward him. "What is it? Tell me?"
He set his drink down and rested his hand on her knee. She pushed it back and moved away. "I think you have the wrong idea."
"No." He slid closer. "You do." He put his arm up over her shoulder, then pulled her toward him.
"Don't!" she cried.
His mouth covered hers. She struggled, finally succumbing to his advances, her lips yielding to his probing tongue. His hands worked at her blouse while his tongue moved down her neck. A low moan of pleasure rose from her throat when his lips found her nipples, then she abandoned herself to passion.
His mouth danced from nipple to nipple, teasing one, then the other. She grabbed at his penis, pushing her hips toward him and pulling him toward her. Feeling all the tiger, he mounted her, thrusting feverishly, bringing her to climax after climax. When he finally came, Sandy fell back, out of breath and trembling. He carried her into his bedroom and made love to her twice more during the night, each time seeming more savage than the first. After the third time, the two collapsed, entwined in each other's arms.
Greg awoke later, hunger gnawing at his gut. He ran his tongue over his teeth. They felt sharper. The backs of his hands and the tops of his feet itched. His nails felt thicker, coarser somehow. He reached down and felt a bump on his tailbone, then opened his eyes, looked at his hands and gasped. Thick orange hairs grew out the backs of them. He kicked the blanket off and stared at his feet. Same thing.
He padded out to the kitchen, and foraged through the refrigerator for something to appease his hunger, smelled what he wanted before seeing it. His mouth watered. Raw steak. He grabbed it and tore into it with his teeth wishing it were warm.
The meat gone, he went to the bathroom and studied himself in the mirror. His eyes looked green, catlike. His crimson-smeared face appeared drawn in the bathroom light. His ears looked pointed. He pulled his upper lip back and spotted two tiny fangs, then he heard Sandy.
"Greg? Greg? Where are you?"
He stumbled out of the bathroom, grabbed his clothes from the living room and let himself out the back door. He drove for hours in a panic. Between fantasies of hunting for living flesh and the ecstasy of devouring it, his mind kept going back to the turtle ritual.
He stopped at a pet store, bought a box turtle and drove back to the mountains where he performed another moonlight ritual with the turtle. When he finished, he climbed into the back seat of his car and slept.
––––––––
When he awoke, his fingernails had returned to normal. His hands and feet looked human again. He looked at himself in the rear view mirror. His regular features had returned.
He spent Sunday recovering. The phone rang all day. He knew it was Sandy, but couldn't bring himself to answer.
On Monday morning he felt different. His back seemed to be growing hard. Like shell. He scrabbled out of bed and ran to the mirror. His eyelids looked droopy. He put his hands to his face.
He went to his office early, pondering what to do. He remembered the shaman's words and in a flash, he understood. Whatever animal he sacrificed, he would take on its form, appearance and instincts. He moaned to himself and stared at his altering fingernails. If only he could be human again.
He thought of Sandy and their lovemaking. The idea of losing her maddened him almost as much as the thought of turning into another animal. There were no animals he could sacrifice to solve his dilemma. He put his head in his hands and wracked his brain, finally looking up from his desk, frustrated.
The door to his office opened. "Good morning, Dr. Friedman," Brent said.
Greg smiled.
