The man was back. He comes here to my home often. Always with human things. We do not have such things. Things called, “cameras” and “microphones.”
This man, he is called, “Mitch.” He has been coming here for a moon’s time. At first he was quiet. Then he started talking. I think he talks to me, but I have seen other humans talk to trees or birds or other things here in the woods. He says things like, “I know you’re out there.” And, “Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you.”
My kind does not trust humans. We have seen them kill animals with their shooting sticks. There are not many of us left. There were not many of us to begin with.
I do not think Mitch wants to hurt us, but our hearts tell us to be wary. When Mitch talks, he talks of his “wife.” He talks about his “children.” I have never seen them here. I do not know all of his words, but I think his family does not like him coming here with his “camera.” He talks about people “laughing” and “ridicule.” I do not understand these things, but I know they are not good.
Many times, his eyes leak water and he makes sad sounds. Something inside of me hurts when he does this. My eyes do not leak water like his, but when my sire died, I made sad sounds like Mitch makes.
My kind has feelings like that. Sad, happy, fear. We are like humans or they are like us, but we cannot exist together. For many years, there were not so many humans and we lived without fear of them. Ancient humans, who looked different from Mitch, and talked different from him too, knew of us, but did not seek to harm us. But more humans came, and they changed and they wanted more land to live on, so we went deeper into the forest.
Some humans come here and live in things called, “tents.” Sometimes they leave things behind. Sometimes not good things like old food holders and drink vessels. One time they left a box that makes human voices and something called, “music.” I like this human thing very much. I turn the round thing on it and different sounds come out. The sounds are like nothing here in the woods. I felt sadness when the thing stopped making the sounds. Maybe one day Mitch will bring one of those things.
But not today. Today Mitch sits on the old tree stump. His “camera” is on the thing with three legs. He looks old and tired. Mitch has never brought a shooting stick. Only his “camera” and “microphone.” I do not fear Mitch. I believe that Mitch is different from other humans. I have communicated with others of my kind who see others like Mitch, looking for us. Some of them bring shooting sticks, talk about “trophies” and “money.”
Mitch never talks of these things. Mitch is talking now, like he often talks. He says, “I just need to know you’re real. I don’t want to kill you, I don’t want to hurt you. I’ve given my whole life looking for you and never made a goddamn dime. If I was in it for the money, I would have quit by now. My wife has left me, my kids think I’m crazy…I have nothing left.”
Mitch’s eyes start leaking and he makes the sad sounds again.
“Sounds like a bad country song, doesn’t it? My wife and kids left me, and I’m going to die looking for Sasquatch.”
This is what Mitch calls us. Sasquatch. One time he brought another man who said, “Bigfoot,” and laughed and that man never came back with Mitch.
“I’ve believed in you my whole damn life. Ever since I was a kid. I went camping with my family and I saw you. I got lost in the woods and hurt my leg real bad, broke it. And you helped me. You took me back to my family but snuck away when they weren’t looking. They never believed me, but I knew you were out there. You saved my life.”
He speaks of my mother. She was a gentle one. Always fascinated by humans. I was still growing inside her at this time, but she told me the story when I was young. I think she wanted to communicate with humans, but was afraid, like we all are, of what would happen.
But I believe Mitch when he says he won’t hurt us. And I smell something different about Mitch. Something sick. My sire smelled similar before he died. I know he might not have long to live and it makes me hurt on the inside when he makes the sad sounds. I don’t want him to make the sad sounds anymore.
I step out from my hiding place and he sees me. His eyes leak more than ever now. I step closer and he makes more sad sounds that turn into happy sounds. I don’t understand this, but I know he means me no harm. He doesn’t go to his “camera” or to his “microphone.” He walks over to me and smiles. His smile makes me happy on the inside and I know I have done the right thing.
“Thank you,” he says. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
Author’s note: This story is dedicated to Billy Willard, who inspired this week’s #fridayflash.
I had several flashes of my daughter’s future this morning as she walked down the stairs. She was going to the mall with her friends, then going to prom, then graduating and following her dreams. But then she returned to the little smiley six year old that she is. Care-free and singing to herself a song she learned in school.
