Silver Claws

1. Never Stop Moving

I suppose it all started with a broken rule.

Most stories start that way. Something going wrong, a mistake, a miscalculation.

This story is no different.

I had listened to my father's rules without fail until a year ago. They guided me long after his death had ended my sheltered world. I had clung to them the way a child holds onto their blanket in fear of the inky night. I had no such trinket or fear, but I did have his rules. The fourth rule was the one I broke first.

This rule was the one that defined my life style, the rule of migration. Traveling across the north American continent, never staying in a location longer than three months. The reasoning behind this constant nomadic life was so I wouldn't be found by anyone or anything.

So I broke this rule. I stayed on the west coast when it was time to move into the southern jungles. Inhaling the ocean air was the closest feeling I had to peace. I stayed here for a year, four months, and three days. I should have been in the east at this time, and I made a deal with myself that when it was time to move south that I would, and continue the rotation my father had layed. But I had never ran into anything threatening in the west the way I had everywhere else, so I decided to stay during this rotation.

My day started the same as nearly every one before. I awoke in the treetops from my restless sleep, I never slept through the night. I stayed on constant guard, there was no one to watch over me, and so I never felt secure enough to sleep more than a few hours at a time. But I had grown used to this, and I barely missed a full night of sleep.

The sun was not yet awake to cast rosey light on the deep green forest and dark sea waters. The cast of light dew blanketed the ground and tree canopy, the water clinging to my own fur like diamonds.

I stretched my back, my long claws digging into the pine branch. My fur rose and fell as the skin twitched beneath, tail swinging long behind me. This was one of my favorite forms, a Bengal tiger.

No matter what animal I made myself into, I was silver. An unnatural shade on any creature, the color shone like the real metal, too brightly to blend in during the day. A failure of camouflage unless I caked myself in mud. My stripes were black, and when I looked in water for my reflection I knew I was a sight for any creature. My fur would glint with each strand, and my silver eyes glowed just as brightly. If I stood still I could pass as a steel casted statue.

I climbed down from my perch and walked to the edge of the cliff. I was conscious of my shine in the sunlight, so every morning I woke up before the sun, lest my fur attract unwanted attention. It acted as a lure, predators challenged me everywhere. I had taken on every sharp toothed animal in North America.

As usual I kept watch, my eyes constantly searching for threats among the trees and rich green brush. Spring was melding into summer, the air smelled like wet earth, thick in new growth. No large game was nearby, only birds in the trees and and a family of hares to my left. They took no note of my silent steps. Finding no imminent threat, I made my way to the edge and lept off.

The water was slightly choppy, beginning to shimmer as the sky grew lighter, feathery clouds would make for a painted sunrise. The air cooly rushing into my face, and something like a smile formed. I inhaled deeply, my fur retracting into my body and scales taking its place. Bones popped and my body morphed into a mako shark, and I dove neatly into the water, the bubbles welcomed me into the cold expanse as I moved forward. As a fish at least, my glinting could be excused.

I would usually spend the day exploring the water, the underwater communities this far north were not so colorful. The reef life here was darker, the fish not as bright. Still life flourished, and I sat above them all as the top of food chain. I observed the life and patterns of these creatures seen the least.