Niall is the only one of them who seems to exist somewhere in between. I say “them” because there is no one on this base who would pretend for a second that I belong here. I can’t contribute anything except to cook and clean, and to the scientists this means very little. They are profoundly single-minded. As they should be. They are in a battle to stop the turning of the world.
We were greeted at the airport in Edinburgh by a young couple who acted as though Niall was the second coming. Everyone on the base has read his work and knows it intimately—they refer to it in meetings. (I only know this because Niall sometimes invites me to sit in on them, and I do so swollen with pride.) We stayed a week at the headquarters there, and then were driven north to the Cairngorms National Park, which is where their wildlife sanctuaries are located and has blessedly clean air. What I have gathered here is that the conservationists have made amazing progress for certain species and no progress for the rest. It was always going to be this way, Niall tells me. They had to choose the more important animals, the ones we need and those with a chance of survival, letting the no-hopers fade into extinction. Interestingly, insects are high on their list—bees, wasps, butterflies, moths, ants, and some types of beetles, even flies. As are hummingbirds, monkeys, possums, and bats. All these animals are pollinators; without plant life we are truly fucked.
This was where Niall and I felt our hearts sink in unison. Saving specific animals purely on the basis of what they offer humanity may be practical, but wasn’t this attitude the problem to begin with? Our overwhelming, annihilating selfishness? What of the animals that exist purely to exist, because millions of years of evolution have carved them into miraculous being?
This is what I ask today, after a month of holding my tongue on the matter, and what causes all the heads in the room to swivel my way. Niall is beside me, holding my hand under the table. They afford me a lot of patience because I am married to Professor Lynch.
James Calloway, a professor of genetics in his seventies, says simply, “We are only so many. Prioritizing is life.”
There is no arguing with that.
Niall squeezes my hand, which is nice. We don’t touch much anymore, not since Iris was stillborn. It’s been over a year since we made love, and maybe that’s due to the fact that most of that year has been spent apart, but even now, reunited, I sometimes can’t imagine how we ever will again. There is a universe between our bodies.
Then again, today he has taken my hand and held it tightly, and that is no small thing.
Talk turns to future migrations and how much of a problem these pose to the remaining breeding pairs of bird species. They are genetically engineered to go in search of food but when no food can be found the journey becomes fatal. The birds die of exhaustion.
“Professor Lynch has written about human involvement in migration patterns as a possible source of species prolonging,” James, who chairs the meetings, says.
“It’s a theory,” Niall murmurs.
“We can’t be following birds around the world,” Harriet Kaska says, ever contrary. “The scale of that would be completely unfeasible. We need to be containing the birds so there is no need for migration. Simplify and prevent.” Harriet is a professor of biology from Prague with a Ph.D. in climate change and another in ornithology. She is obsessed with arguing with Niall, and I think it’s because he challenges her professionally in a way none of the others do. Her notion to prevent migrations is one they have argued about at length. My opinion on the matter, not that it’s required, is obvious.
“Migration is inherent to their nature,” Niall says.
“But it doesn’t have to be,” Harriet says. “We live now in a state of necessary adaptation. This is what’s required of them—it is the only means of survival, as it has always been.”
“Haven’t we forced them to adapt to our devastation enough?”
This is what they seem to do in this room: argue for the same things, round and round in circles.
Talk moves to the Arctic terns, for Niall has written often of them, predicting they will be the last birds to survive because of their practice in flying farther than others.
“It doesn’t matter,” another biologist, Olsen Dalgaard from Denmark, says. “Give it five to ten years and they won’t make the distance. With zero sustenance along the way, they can’t.”
“You’re mad if you think carnivorous seabirds will be the last standing,” Harriet tells Niall as though she is about to start taking bets. “It will be the herbivorous marshland species. Only ones with sustained ecology. Fish are gone, Niall.”
“They’re not, actually,” he says calmly, always calm as though he doesn’t care, when I know for a fact that he rarely sleeps due to the force of his terror.
“As good as,” Harriet says.
Niall doesn’t continue arguing, but I know him. He believes the terns will keep flying as long as they must; if there is food anywhere on this planet they will find it.
I excuse myself, tired and wanting fresh air. My snow boots and parka are waiting for me by the door. I slip into them and step out into the wintry world. My feet lead me to the largest enclosure. I’m pretty sure I heard someone say it was half the size of the entire 4,500-square-kilometer park, and all of it with one enormous fence around it. There are wonderful animals here, and not only those native to Scotland but many that have been rescued and introduced to the park in an effort to stop their extinction. Foxes and hares abound, deer and wildcats and lynx, rare red squirrels, elusive little pine martens, hedgehogs, badgers, bears, moose, even wolves lived here once, before the last died. A sanctuary unrivaled by the rest of the world, but only capable of so much. The balance of predator and prey is a delicate one, and these are the last of their kinds.
I wish I could walk through this chain-link fence. The far side of it interests me so much more than this side, but even I wouldn’t be that stupid. Instead I go down to the beach of the loch, which is no ocean but still a great relief to the lungs. I’m not supposed to swim in it, but I do. Just a quick dip into the icy water and out again, scrambling to pull my clothes back on, so much more alive than before. I saw an otter here one day, and melted.
It is a privilege I lucked into when I married Niall. To live here, in this rarest part of the world, where dwell most of the last wild animals. I don’t deserve to be here—I offer nothing except love for a man who offers a great deal. And true love for the creatures. There is that, little may it matter.
I take my time walking back to the dining hall where everyone eats together, except that Niall is still working so I eat on my own and then go to bed in our little cabin. I’m asleep before he returns, as is the way most nights. He tends to be up and gone before I wake, too. The kisses he once left me to dream of dried up some time ago.
* * *
Sleep is difficult tonight. I must be getting a cold because I can’t stop coughing. There is a tickle in my throat and no matter how much water I drink I cannot ease it. Not wanting to wake Niall, I rise and pull on thick socks and a wool sweater. I head to our bathroom. It’s just next to the bedroom but in the dark it feels much farther away than I expect. My feet keep moving, shuffling and colder than they should be. Finally my hand finds the light switch but when I flick it the power is out. It’s cold in the dark bathroom. The air here has grown frigid—perhaps a window was left open. There’s enough light from the red of Niall’s electric razor for me to see the outline of my reflection, and the glow of eyes. I blink, frowning at the way the red bounces off my irises, like an animal in the dark.