The Giraffe

Charles O. Smith

Atop a hill at the westernmost point of the city stood an ancient fortress overlooking a rocky offshore archipelago inhabited by sea lions, gulls, and crustaceans. The centuries-old fort was originally constructed to defend against sea monster attacks during a series of dawn-out maritime wars. But the wars eventually ended, and whatever sea monsters had swum along the coastal shelf migrated north to escape to cooler waters. The army left the fortress mostly abandoned. Only two remained: a short general with a sharp jaw and Roman nose who dressed daily in full regalia and his beautiful wife. The wife, after enduring several failed attempts to bear a child, became so inspired by a human interest piece covering a baby boom at the zoological park that she gave birth to a giraffe.

The general’s wife loved the baby giraffe. She loved his golden fur with geometric brown spots. She loved his freckled cheeks and long eyelashes. Most of all, she loved his flowing mane. She spent her days spoiling herself and her offspring. After brushing her own curly hair, she would brush the giraffe’s mane for hours. She would apply soothing balms, unguents, and creams to her face, her arms, and legs. Then she would gently rub the same balms into her son’s exquisite coat. By the time she finished, he would be glowing and ready to exercise in the backyard. Before trotting outside for his daily romp, the giraffe, feeling utterly adored, would lean down and lick her face with his thick purple tongue.

“It is unnatural,” the general declared one afternoon after one such display of affection. “Unpatriotic, no less, to keep a giraffe in the house!”

The general was not sentimental in regard to his offspring. He had some experience with horses from his military background, so he instructed the wife to feed the giraffe apples and carrots and hay. Refusing to allow the animal to run wild all day, he implemented a strict regimen of equestrian training that was largely unsuccessful, and left both himself and the giraffe feeling demoralized.

“When that giraffe comes of age,” the general finally said, “we will send him to the zoological park.”

“I can care for him here,” the wife insisted.

“Keeping a giraffe as a pet,” the general snapped, “or worse, as one’s child, is pure anarchy! I will not have it.”

The discussion ended there.

Over the years, the government began to transfer the unused tracts and buildings on the military installation to the park service. As the base shrunk, the park grew and required the supervision of a team of rangers. Eventually, a handsome ranger who wore his beard thick and his olive drab uniform a little too tight moved into the old equestrian stables across the ravine behind the fortress.

During his afternoon breaks, the olive-clad ranger would enjoy a glass of sherry on the deck while listening to flamenco music so loudly that it echoed off the surrounding hills. One such afternoon, he noticed a youth with a slender neck and dazzling eyelashes dancing and clapping to the flamenco sounds in a clearing near the bottom of the hill. A lick of hair covered his forehand, and the rest of his thick mane twisted down his back. Even though the youth’s limbs were dangly, with noticeably knobby joints, he was graceful in his movements. As soon as he noticed the ranger observing him, the boy disappeared. There remained only a giraffe. The ranger frequently observed this giraffe roaming the fortress grounds and nibbling at the leaves in the highest branches of the eucalyptus and acacias.

The ranger knew that the fortress was occupied by the general and his wife. He wasn’t aware, however, whether or not they had any children. Perhaps this was a visiting nephew? The ranger wanted to invite the youth over to listen to flamenco records and to share some of the photo books he had collected of magnificent gypsy performers. But he was leery of the general who was known for his staunch political views and his short fuse.

The general had once written an op-ed for the gazette decrying the dismantling of the military base as short-sighted and accusing the Park Service of being anarcho-syndicalists. Except for a pocket of true anarcho-syndicalists living in a row of run-down Victorian flats in the seediest area of town, most locals couldn’t even tell you what “anarcho-syndicalist” meant. Still, the ranger and his colleagues were government employees charged with stewardship of the land and its maintenance as a refuge from the dense, chaotic city. Regardless of their individual politics, they did not appreciate the association with fringe political movements.

This went on for several years. The youth matured. His chest broadened and his legs thickened. Each day he grew more handsome. Somehow, his flamenco skills matured too. Yet, he still disappeared each time he caught the olive ranger watching him dance. In the ranger’s spare time, he started decorating one of the unused stables with a mosaic depicting dancing giraffes designed in discarded plastic he had collected on the beach.

A few short days before the giraffe’s eighteenth birthday, the gazette published news that the army had commenced operations in a distant desert land. The general was selected to lead an envoy of strategists. The wife was sore to see her husband go, but she was secretly grateful to have more time with her beloved son, the giraffe. Having read the news of the general’s departure, the olive ranger took the opportunity to visit the general’s wife.

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” the ranger said, removing his hat and gesturing toward the park. “I’m a ranger. I live in the old equestrian stables across the ravine.”

“Come in, Mr. Ranger,” she invited. “Let’s have some tea.”

The general had strictly forbidden his wife to allow unfamiliar men inside the fortress in his absence, especially suspected anarcho-syndicalists. However, the olive ranger looked trustworthy, even genuine, in his uniform, although his pants were at least two sizes too small. The two sat in red leather armchairs in a library just off the entryway, where the housekeeper served a pot of tea and some small sandwiches.

“I’ve worked in the park for many years,” the ranger said, “but I’ve never had the opportunity to introduce myself.”

“We don’t get many visitors,” the general’s wife said. “I think the general likes it that way.”

“I am an aficionado of flamenco music and dance, you see,” the ranger said. “I’ve noticed that when I listen to records on the terrace in the afternoon, your son appears to enjoy flamenco too …”

The woman tilted her head inquisitively and said, “I used to dance flamenco.”

She stood and took a photo from a rolltop desk and showed it to the ranger. It was a sepia image of a young woman in a ruffled polka dot dress next to a very stern-looking man in a black suit. They appeared to be clapping and stomping at the same time.

“I learned from the greatest bailaor in Sevilla.” She returned the photo to the desk. “I taught here for several years before the general retired.”

“Did you teach your son,” he asked, quickly following the question with a sip of tea so he could avert her gaze.

The general had insisted that no one should know their secret except the midwife who had helped deliver the giraffe, the animal’s vet who was a close family friend, and the maid. But the wife was alone now and worried that, upon the general’s return, she would lose her child.

“As strange as it sounds,” she said, “the giraffe you see from the stables is my son.”

Puzzled that she mentioned the giraffe and not the boy, the ranger nodded.

“Aaaand the giraffe is the only one who goes into the woods along the ravine in the afternoons?”

“Yes,” she said. “But that will all end soon. He is eighteen now, and the general has insisted that he be sent to the zoo.”

“It is an enchantment,” the ranger thought.

He had heard similar tales of bewitchery, of people trapped in the bodies of foxes, ganders, and turtles, but never a giraffe. His cousin was a baker in town. She often told him stories of how she helped folks who were suffering from enchantments. He didn’t imagine that the general was the type to entertain such sorceries or the methods of breaking them. If the giraffe and the young man were the same, maybe he could help the general’s wife remain close to her son.

“There is ample room in the stables,” the ranger said. “Perhaps we can house the giraffe there. The general need not know that you did not exile your son to the zoo, simply that you honored his wish to rehome the giraffe upon reaching the age of majority.”

“Will I be able to see him?” she asked, dabbing a napkin at the corner of her eye.

“We’ll build that into the plan,” the ranger said.

“He only eats apples, carrots, and hay,” she said. “He’s very picky.”

“Noted,” the ranger said. “I’ll go now to sort through the details.”

A few days later, the ranger returned to the fortress with a cart that had previously been used for hauling horses. He had cut away the roof to allow the giraffe to ride comfortably with his neck extended. After they had loaded the giraffe into the cart, the general’s wife brought out a travel bag.

She said, “His skin is very sensitive, so I’ve included detailed instructions about his care regimen. Don’t forget the ossicones.”

“Ossicones?”

“The horns. The fur covering them is quite delicate.”

“Got it,” the ranger said, placing the bag just inside the cart.

“I’ve begun construction on a boardwalk down to the ravine, and a small bridge,” the ranger said. “There the two of you can visit discreetly.”

So the giraffe went to live with the ranger in the old equestrian stables in the park. After a couple of months, the ranger had completed walkways for the giraffe to visit his mother in the afternoons. It turned out that they need not worry about crafting a story regarding the giraffe’s relocation for the general. He never returned from the desert.

The giraffe and the ranger settled into a routine. Of course, the giraffe did not transform into a man now that he was always with the ranger. Other rangers clad in various colors came and went from the park without noticing the way this ranger spent most of his free time tending to a giraffe. Eventually, there arrived a new ranger dressed all in scarlet. This scarlet ranger had dated the olive ranger when they were both in the forestry program at a college hidden deep in the redwood forest. The olive ranger had finished his degree a year before the scarlet ranger and left the relationship behind when he set off on his career. The future scarlet ranger had not let things go so easily.

When he arrived at the military base turned park, the scarlet ranger tried to corner the olive ranger to talk to him about their break. Occasionally he would sit outside the olive ranger’s room shouting questions and accusations. Other times he sat in the paddock sobbing. But the olive ranger went about his duties and routines, ignoring the red ranger. He spent all his spare time in the giraffe’s stable, feeding him apples and hay, brushing his mane, and rubbing his coat with creams.

Late that fall, the olive ranger received a letter from the college asking him to deliver a presentation to the current enrollees in the forestry program. They wanted him to encourage the young rangers-to-be, to outline their career options and the rewarding work of ranger-hood. Yet he fretted over whether or not he should leave the giraffe alone. In the end, he decided it would be okay as long as he rubbed its coat with lots of unguents before he left and if he put out a crate of apples and a bale of hay.

The day that the olive ranger left, the scarlet ranger drank a bottle of sherry and snooped around the stables. He discovered the giraffe munching on some apples next to a stack of flamenco records.

“So this is where he spends his time,” the scarlet ranger thought.

He returned to his room to don his toreador’s outfit and grab his props. It turns out the scarlet ranger moonlighted as a stripper who delivered birthday messages to unwitting recipients in the guise of a bullfighter. Before singing Happy Birthday, he tore away his silks to a rousing pasodoble played on a phonograph with a tulip-shaped speaker that he pulled behind him in a cart. Now he tossed his props onto the cart that was already loaded with his phonograph.

Back at the stable, the scarlet ranger winked slyly at the giraffe and slurred, “How ya doin’ big fella?”

The giraffe craned his neck around. The cords on the man’s outfit reminded him of the ones on his father’s uniform. The ranger glowed. His muscles rippled beneath the silks. The giraffe nuzzled his nose against the material. He licked at the brocade on the bolero.

“Would you like to play a game?” the scarlet ranger cooed.

The giraffe batted his big, beautiful lashes and nodded his head.

The red ranger lassoed a rope around the giraffe’s neck and led him outside to the paddock. After releasing the giraffe, he pulled a record from his bag. He placed the record on the player, cranked the handle, and dropped the needle. The air filled with the sound of an orchestral pasodoble. The ranger took a red cape from his bag and shook it at the giraffe. To the ranger’s delight, the giraffe showed interest. He backed up. The giraffe followed. He twirled the cape, and the giraffe followed again.

But the giraffe was not a bull, and the scarlet ranger was not a real bullfighter. The giraffe soon lost interest and wandered to the edge of the paddock to nibble the leaves of the surrounding eucalyptus. The scarlet ranger snapped his cape and shouted. When the giraffe didn’t respond, he returned to his duffle bag. After a bit of rummaging around, he withdrew a pair of banderillas decorated with red and yellow feathers.

“Hey!” he yelled. “Stupid giraffe!”

The giraffe glanced lazily at him before resuming his snack.

The pasodoble intensified: the woodwinds chirped frantically, the brass crescendoed, and the percussion hammered.

The scarlet ranger ran for his prey, but he was feeling the sherry. He tripped on a root by the giraffe’s hind legs, managing just barely to nick the beast’s right haunch before stumbling to the ground and dropping the banderillas. The nick caught the giraffe’s attention. He leaned down and hissed into the scarlet ranger’s face before turning to lick the scratch.

The ranger crawled through the dust to retrieve the banderillas. He scrambled back to his feet and held the banderillas high in the air. He ran screaming at the giraffe. With the giraffe tending its scratch, he was able to land two banderillas in succession: one to the neck and one to the haunch.

The giraffe reared its neck, dousing the ranger in blood before kicking him across the paddock. The giraffe was now in pain and running in circles and bellowing. The force of the kick knocked the breath from the ranger and broke a few ribs. It popped the snaps of his pull-away pants, showing the half-moon of one ass cheek and the strap of his pink thong. Enraged, the ranger snatched two more banderillas from his bag.

The giraffe charged, splintering the cart, but the red ranger rolled out of the way. The giraffe’s bellowing caught the attention of another brown-clad ranger who was walking near the stables. Now the giraffe was circling. The scarlet ranger waited for the animal’s orbit to pass near him so he could stab it in the back of its right knee. He struck. The wounded animal hissed and bellowed. It fell to the ground in an enormous cloud of dust.

By the time the brown ranger arrived, the scarlet ranger was stabbing at the giraffe’s neck and back. The animal was howling fiercely from its terrible wounds. The brown ranger picked up a broken board from the cart and slammed the scarlet ranger across the back. The scarlet ranger fell to the ground beside the giraffe that now lay whimpering and bleeding.

The brown ranger picked up the scarlet ranger, cuffed him, and hauled him to the guardhouse.

“What did he do?” the guard asked.

“He attacked a giraffe,” the brown ranger said. “I caught him stabbing it with a banderilla.”

“Barbarian,” the guard said with disgust and led the scarlet ranger to his cell.

The brown ranger left immediately to search out the park veterinarian, who he brought to examine the suffering giraffe.

“The most humane option,” the vet said, dabbing a tear from his eye, “is euthanasia.”

“Give me time,” the brown ranger said.

“There’s little time,” the vet said.

The brown ranger was aware of the bakery downtown with a reputation for performing miraculous healings. He took the next cable car to the center of town. The line at the bakery wrapped around the block, but he went through the back alley to the kitchen entrance. The bakers had the door open to alleviate the sweltering heat.

“Help!” the brown ranger shouted. “Ma’am!”

A very old baker leaned out the door.

“I am sorry to bother you,” the ranger said, “but it’s an emergency.”

He told the old woman about the dying giraffe and how it had been abused. She fetched her colleague, who appeared much younger and very beautiful.

“I can provide you with a cure,” the woman said. “But there may be side effects.”

“If you could see the poor animal, ma’am,” the ranger said. “We must try.”

The woman gathered various herbs, dried fungi, roots, and weeds. She fetched a couple of jars of powder from the pantry. She filled a heavy pestle and ground the mix together. As a final gesture, she passed her hand above the pestle and twisted her silver ring. She sealed the powder in a baggy and handed it to the brown ranger.

“Sprinkle this on the wounds twice a day for a week,” the woman said. “Though scabs will form quickly, you must continue the treatment.”

“I understand,” the ranger said.

“And make sure the giraffe gets plenty of water. Beware of side effects, especially if there is an enchantment.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” the ranger said. “I must return quickly to the park.”

“Go in peace,” the woman said.

The brown ranger arrived at the paddock to find the general’s wife cradling the giraffe’s head and stroking his mane. When the giraffe had not shown up for their afternoon visit, she had climbed the hill into the park to find him. The olive ranger had also returned from the college. There had been no conference and no one there knew of any invitation for the olive ranger to speak; the letter he’d received was a forgery. Now, he was pressing damp towels on the giraffe’s wounds. The vet had hooked up a giant IV of opiates to the animal’s shoulder. Its breaths were short, shallow, and irregular.

“The baker had a treatment,” the brown ranger announced. “Remove the towels.”

The olive ranger did as he was told, and the brown ranger sprinkled the powder on the first wound. The powder glittered atop the bloody gash and quickly formed a scab. The bleeding stopped. The brown ranger treated the next wound, which also sealed up. The giraffe’s breathing became more relaxed and rhythmic. He licked his mother’s hands.

“It’s working,” the olive ranger said.

“We have to continue the treatment for a week,” the brown ranger said.

“Do you want to stay here?” the olive ranger asked the general’s wife.

“My own medicines are at home,” she said. “I will come every day to visit.”

The giraffe’s wounds did heal from the treatment, but there was a side effect: he assumed his human form. At first the rangers and his mother thought that he was being horribly deformed. But halfway through the week, hands and feet had formed where his hooves had been. His ossicones receded completely. By the end of the week, he was a fully healed, handsome and sturdy man.

A few weeks later the gazette printed a report that the scarlet ranger had been exiled to one of the craggy islands in the archipelago where gulls showered him in excrement every day. By nightfall he would be covered with poop. Violent waves washed him clean at night, only for the process to repeat itself the following day.

The handsome former giraffe remained at the park with the olive ranger. He made a point of visiting the fortress to see his mother every day. Since his attack, her health had started to decline. They hired a live-in nurse. Otherwise, the young man was extremely curious and wanted to learn everything. He took up crochet. He sewed his own clothes based upon outfits he saw in shops on the high street. He read books all night long. He never slept.

When the olive ranger had time away from work, he took delight in showing his friend the sights of the city. They strolled botanical gardens, browsed art museums, and attended spectacular drag shows where the brown ranger sometimes performed. They went to the bakery where the olive ranger’s cousin worked. While the former giraffe nibbled an apple, she told the story of how she had made the curative powder for the brown ranger. The man’s diet had not changed since his metamorphosis. The only exception was a glass of sherry he’d partake of in the afternoon while he and the olive ranger listened to flamenco together.

One afternoon over glasses of sherry, the olive ranger asked, “What was it like growing up as a giraffe under the stern hand of the general?”

“He was not one to demonstrate affection,” the handsome man said with a chuckle. “But I know that he loved me.”

“He wanted to send you to a zoo.”

“Of course he did. The general was a practical man.” He took a sip of his sherry. “He knew I’d be safe there. Properly cared for and at no risk of attack.”

The ranger blushed and stared into his glass.

After some moments, his companion asked, “Did you love the scarlet ranger?”

“Maybe once?” the ranger said. “We fell out of touch when I graduated, and I never expected him to track me down, much less to take out his jealousy on my friends.”

“You never know what people will do,” the young man said. “It’s not your fault.”

He kissed the ranger on the cheek.

“I never loved him like I love you,” the ranger wanted to say, but now did not seem the time. The words caught in his throat.

As time went on, the handsome man spent more and more time with his sickly mother. The ranger took on greater responsibility at the park, eventually becoming its director. They still saw one another on occasion, but their museum tours and drag nights ended. Their afternoon sherry times became less and less frequent. As such, the olive ranger started to notice his friend’s accelerated aging. His hair had turned gray overnight. At first the ranger thought it must be the lack of sleep, but the man’s hearing started to fail to the extent that he needed to wear a hearing aid. He suffered from random bouts of dizziness that could take him down for weeks. He added an array of pills and supplements to his diet of apples and carrots. Despite all this, he remained firmly lodged in the olive ranger’s heart.

They finally planned to take a walk on the trails along the seaside cliffs. The olive ranger wanted to impress his friend with his knowledge of the sea monsters and the coastal wars. He packed his basket with an especially fine bottle of sherry and a collection of heirloom apples and organic carrots in rainbow colors. He dusted off his boots and folded his picnic blanket. He would finally admit to his friend the depth of his affection. On his way out of the stables, he found a note taped to his door.

Dear friend, I am feeling poorly. Even so, my mother is feeling worse. I must remain by her side.

For some reason, the olive ranger’s disappointment left him feeling utterly deserted. Numb. He did not want to go on the hike alone, so he returned to his apartment and cracked open the sherry. He put on some flamenco music but had to shut it off because the sorrowful sounds felt like they would break him from the inside out. He covered his head with a pillow and tried to take a nap.

On his free day a few weeks later, the olive ranger took a cable car to the bakery downtown to see his cousin, eat a chocolate croissant, and read the gazette. As he drank his cappuccino, he discovered a lengthy obituary for the general’s wife. The eloquent eulogy extolled her virtue, her kindness, her acts of philanthropy. There was a brief mention of her time as a flamenco teacher, but nothing about a giraffe or a son.

The ranger’s cousin came to his table and sat across from him.

“Why the long face, cuz?” she asked.

“My friend’s mother died,” he said.

“I know,” she said. “He came in here the day after. He was looking for relief from his own accelerated aging.”

“He did?”

“Yes. I told him I could make him a potion, but it would likely mean that he would return to his giraffe form.”

The friend had been okay with the risk. He told her he felt that his being human had run its course, that it was merely the unintended result of the first cure—the one for the wounds inflicted by the scarlet ranger.

“So I provided him with a vial,” the cousin said. “He said he would take the train down south, where there is an expansive zoological park that is home to a magnificent tower of giraffes. He planned to drink the potion inside the park before joining the others.”

The olive ranger knew about these giraffes. There had been lengthy coverage in the science section of the gazette. But the news of his friend’s departure left him feeling simultaneously like he’d inhaled dragon’s breath and been kicked in the back of the head. He closed his eyes for a moment. He tried to imagine his friend, once again a giraffe, surrounded by his kind, and being cared for by the best zookeepers in the world. He asked his cousin for her pen and wrote a note on his napkin.

May you be happy, friend. May you be well. May the sun beam love upon you every day.

He added a quick sketch of a giraffe with a bird on one ossicone. A tear fell onto the napkin, causing the message to smear.

The ranger pushed back from the table and ran to the street. Traffic stopped. Pedestrians and their dogs froze mid-step. Cyclists suspended mid-pedal. Time ground to a halt. He shredded the napkin and released the pieces into the air. The remnants caught an upward current. They whirled for a moment in the cloudless sky, dancing around one another before reassembling in the form of a noble pigeon. As the world resumed its motion, the pigeon circled once, twice, and a third time before flying south. It would take two days to reach the zoological park.