Post by Shades on Aug 10, 2005 2:32:02 GMT -5
A harsh cry drifted off the forested slopes of one of the many mist enshrouded mountains surrounding the secluded valley. The valley was cast into temporary darkness as a solitary cloud momentarily obscured the full moon.
The group of hunters made their way cautiously along an ill-defined trail leading into the mountains. Tendrils of fog swirled about their ankles like the fingers of a monstrous hand. But for the melancholy cry caressing the night and the hunter’s boots upon the rocky path there was no sound. Not a word had passed between them since the trail took its upward swing. No words were necessary; each man knew where he was headed and why. Their flaring torches held back the night as they pressed up the increasingly steep trail, the men having lost a great deal of their boisterous courage exhibited earlier at the Cat’s Eye Pub, their mutual camaraderie now shared in mutual silence.
Far up the path the wailing persisted, drawing the men closer. To the hunters it seemed to be the lament of an animal mourning the loss of it’s very soul, as if it were caught in the savage jaws of an enormous trap, the pitiless iron teeth biting cruelly into tender flesh. It was a cry that touched the heart and moved the soul to compassion, instilling in one the desire to caress and comfort.
Most of the men were experienced trackers and knew full well the most dangerous animal of all is a wounded one such as the one they were after. In the mind of each man resided the knowledge that the beast, whatever it may be, was not held fast in a trap and could easily turn the hunters into the hunted. Great caution was called for. Each step into the gloom saw the men’s courage seep slowly away as the comforting lights of home were swallowed by distance and fog.
Desmond Wyler, not a hunter or tracker but a disillusioned ex-priest and semi-permanent fixture of the Cat’s Eye, broke the silence, his quavering voice high pitched with fear. “I can’t go on!”
The unexpected words leapt at the men like a specter from the shadows. They stopped amid gasps and short cries of alarm. Wyler trembled as he gazed at the indistinct faces of the others. “This is wrong!” he voiced, a little too loudly.
“Damn your eyes, old man!” one of the shadowy figures whispered harshly.
Wyler was unabashed. “Devils are sent to test us, to goad us to reveal our baser selves. It is not right to follow a devil to its lair. It is suicide!”
John Brash had been chosen to lead the hunt and he pounced quickly on the situation before it got out of hand. He reproached Wyler in a harsh whisper. “Keep quiet, old fool! Devils? Holy God, man, this is 1879, of a surety the church has thrown out such archaic ideas.”
“Well,” one of the others couldn’t resist saying, “They chucked out ol’ Wyler, didn’t they?”
This drew a few nervous chuckles but Wyler was unperturbed. “Of a surety they haven’t thrown out belief of the evil one.”
Brash knew he couldn’t allow the seed of fear to grow. “Well I hardly think old Satan is going to be tramping around in this wilderness at two in the morning. Get a grip on your imagination. We are after an animal, and a wounded one at that. We will find it and put it out of its misery. I’ll tolerate no more talk of devils. My God, Desmond, I think maybe you had a pint too much at the pub.”
“Well as for me,” another voice whispered out of the darkness, “I wish I was still there sippin’.”
Jason Biggs spoke up, also a little shaken by the night cries. “I don’t like to admit it, Brash, but I’ve got a case of the willies myself. Just listen… have you ever heard such an unearthly howl?”
“You put a mass of lead in its hide four hours ago, didn’t you?”
“Of a certainty I did, and fifty caliber at that.”
“Was it a devil you shot?”
Jason hesitated, grateful for the darkness that hid his blushing. “No, of course not. Suddenly I feel rather foolish.”
“We have all heard the stories, of wild men, of monsters in the lakes and Indian curses; stories told to frighten children to keep them from straying into the wilderness and being lost to us. I’m sure you and Wyler are not alone with your feelings but keep your wits about you. You shot the thing and now it is in mortal pain. For God’s sake, Jason, it’s in agony! We are hearing its death throes. It will be a mercy to finish it off.” He gazed up the trail into the fog-bound darkness. “Poor, stupid creature. Little does it realize its cries are leading us to it. At any rate the sun will be up in a few hours. Perhaps it will chase away Wyler’s devils. Come along Desmond, let’s keep moving, my bones are taking a chill.”
The procession continued with Wyler bringing up the rear, not at all swayed by Brash’s logic. Crossing himself while muttering a prayer (a prayer he doubted would be heard) he stumbled up the trail after the others, peering fearfully into the dense forest imagining unseen terrors. He was further unnerved by the spectral torchlight shadows dancing in the fog. They only added to the otherworldly eeriness of the cries.
Brash spearheaded the group. His flaming brand seemed only to magnify the gloom. The night cries intensified and Brash had to admit to himself that he was puzzled. The cries he was hearing were not cries of pain nor were they the voicing of rage. Brash had heard such cries before, at funerals and gravesites where anguished primal wails wrenched from broken human hearts filled the air.
“Such a lonely sound,” he thought. “I wonder if it is alone, the last of its kind. Most probably an old grizzly, which were killed out in these parts long before my time. Perhaps it was an old hermit passing through, a solitary wanderer searching vainly for a mate. Jason said the thing he shot was huge and fur covered though in the darkness he could make out little else, other than the fact it had been feasting on a spring lamb. So there it is, we are after a wounded bear. What could be more dangerous? I hope the howling will continue as it is our only guide. Dear God, what a heart-rending sound it is.”
Sprawled over a freshly laid cairn of boulders near the top of the mountain was the beast; half again as tall as a man, barrel chest, massive arms and legs like the trunks of trees, and a head which seems to sit squarely on the shoulders. A cry of misery issued from it as desperate tears trickled through coarse facial hair. The creatures emotions were in turmoil:
“I walk alone. The forest lies still. My heart cries. The death of the Giver-of-Life
has made my existence unbearable. The man-creatures have removed her from
my side. Their greed and over-hunting have driven away the food animals, forcing
us to procure our food in ever dangerous ways. We have always shared our home
with the Red Man, the first people, who were also driven out by this new man. We
have grown in the Red Man’s legends as they have in ours. We have always shared, keeping ourselves hidden as is our nature. But this new breed of man does not share,
he takes till there is no more. The Maker-of-the-New, in her hunger, slew a man’s
animal, a low quality domestic beast. For that one desperate act of hunger she was
mortally wounded. God of all, where is their mercy?”
Sasquatch rose painfully from the rocks, overwhelmed with grief. Unfamiliar feelings roiled within him. Despair turned itself inside out and yielded to rage. Massive hands clenched into fists of unbridled fury. He trembled before the concealed grave of his dead mate.
“I will show man the mercy he has shown us. My blood boils. My anger seethes within me like angry worms. The vials of wrath scream to be released. My mate of many seasons bled her life away in my arms –these arms- the arms that will crush the man-creatures… the murderers!”
Throwing its clenched fists skyward Sasquatch bellowed in rage and unleashed its fury on a nearby tree, rending it savagely, stripping bark with nail hard claws, splintering branches, shrieking fiercely like the enraged beast it was.
The sudden onslaught stunned and horrified the hunters. John Brash cried out, “AAHHHH! What the…?!”
The valley walls reverberated the relentless violence, echoing and re-echoing the cries so that they seemed to come from all sides. The hunters stopped sudden, eyes darting about in shocked confusion. Wyler collapsed, uttering a chaotic prayer, his legs twisting beneath him. The harsh shrieks of absolute fury rebounded off the mountain slopes, an uproar of such violence and magnitude that even Brash allowed second thoughts to enter his mind. Indeed, even a hint of Wyler’s devils passed through. Brash had never heard such a powerful sustained cry. It indicated an immense lung capacity and undoubtedly an enormous body to match. He was equally at a loss to explain the violence of timber –large timber- breaking.
As suddenly as it had begun the cacophony stopped. An eerie quiet prevailed as the final echoes dwindled and died. The blackness of the cold night closed in about the men like a suffocating shroud. The torches seemed to lose their brilliance. Brash raised a visibly shaking hand in an unnecessary gesture to keep the men quiet as his eyes and ears scanned the forest, which seemed denser now, and darker. Wyler’s barely audible prayers whispered past the men’s ears. Biggs attempted to silence him with a gesture. Wyler wailed in terror, “We are finished!”
“Quiet!” was Biggs’ stern whispered reply.
Wyler raised his terrified eyes to meet Biggs and cried, “We are all dead men!”
“Shut up, damn you!” Biggs shouted. A sharp reproachful glare from Brash made him regret his folly. He clenched his teeth in silent reprimand wishing he could summon the outburst back to whence it came.
Upon the mountain Sasquatch stood, a silent creature in the darkness, a gargoyle with fiery eyes looking out on the valley before it. Chest heaving from exertion, anger temporarily spent it stood in profound silence. A shout, a human cry, wafted up the slope and tickled his ears. Sasquatch bounded through the fog to the trail head and found concealment behind a boulder outcropping, his vigilant eyes wide and alert. Rising slowly so it could scan the valley below, it caught sight of the hunting party. Once again its anger seethed.
“Foolish men. Do you believe the fog conceals you? No, it cannot protect you. And your sticks that breathe fire and death… useless. You are in my world now. I could strike you all dead within two heartbeats. Your heads in my hands would crack as easily as the fragile eggs of a bird. Your weak bodies would offer no resistance as I pulled them apart. But no, I will not kill you. I will not show you mercy. For to kill you now would be a mercy. Where are your females, brave hunters? Where are your Givers-of-Life? Do they wait in your sturdy homes awaiting your glorious return? No! They sit in their thatched huts waiting to die! I will take them from you. Life for life, mighty hunters. You shall be in this world as I am. Alone. Come brave men, track your foe, destroy me if you can!”
A drawn out quavering moan enveloped the men. It was a painful cry containing none of the fury of moments ago. “There, you see?” Brash asked confidently, his fear abating. “It is in its death throes. Let’s put an end to its misery and return home.”
A wave of relief swept through the men. “Of course you are right,” Biggs said. “These valley walls magnify the cries, and the dark and the damned fog do nothing to ease the nerves, to say nothing about this idiot priest! We can’t allow our imagined fears to destroy us. We must take pity and destroy that poor creature. I’m starting to feel sorry for it. But now listen, Brash. It was my ball that wounded it so it should be mine that kills it.”
Brash agreed, very relieved that calm was being restored. “Yes, Jason, all glory will be yours. You’ll have a bearskin rug before your hearth this winter and a tale to tell your grandchildren.” Brash released a heartfelt laugh. It felt good to laugh and the others joined him. Jason swelled with pride thinking of a hero’s return with tales of daring and wonder to enthrall his adoring family. “Let’s get on with it,” Brash said. “Once again my bones are taking a chill. Age has robbed me of the resilience of youth. Check your guns and be alert.”
From the end of the trail the creature listened intently, its ears cupped to collect all stray bits of sound.
“Yes, fine men, ready your weapons. Kill the enemy you have so foolishly made. Do you sense my tears? Do you smell my mate’s blood upon my hands? Do you enjoy my cries?
Soon they will mingle with your own.”
“Oh! Dear Lord Jesus and the Saints preserve us!” Wyler wailed as an inhuman screech lunged at them through the mist. To draw the hunters closer Sasquatch cunningly let lose one last pathetic wail. Then, silent as a shadow, Sasquatch skirted around the men, its five-hundred pound body whispering over the forest floor quiet as a chipmunk. It emerged onto the trail far down the valley, far behind the men. Moments later it stood at the edge of the forest.
In the distance a small cabin sat on a grassy expanse bathed in moonlight. A warm yellow glow issued from the single window and slipped between the crack around the door. White smoke plumed from the chimney in the windless night, spiraling up to tickle the stars. Occasionally a shadowy form hovered near the window, then withdrew. Sasquatch had reached his objective, his quest at an end. He pondered the shadowy figure at the window:
“Giver-of-Birth. Maker-of-Men. You pace. You worry. Anxiously you await your man’s return. Miserable creature, when the brave hunter returns he will find you torn into a thousand bits of bloody flesh. He will then feel the hate I feel. He will feel my loss. He will mourn as I mourn. Nowhere on this world will he find comfort. Then, and only then, will he and I meet, as equals, with nothing to live for and nothing but hate in out hearts. Then the inevitable battle will begin. Our hate will surround and consume us and death shall be the only victor.”
Once again the shadow appeared at the window. A small hand pushed aside the curtain and a plump face peered out into the night. As the curtain rippled back into place Sasquatch made its move. It moved to the cabin swift and silent as a deer. Beside the window it stood ready for the next time the shadow appeared. The anger returned ten-fold. His lips curled back into a hideous snarl showing huge yellowed teeth as the rage within it grew. His fingers twitched spasmodically, adrenaline greatly magnifying their strength.
Strange scents from within the cabin irritated its nose. The smells weren’t all new but he had never been this close to the source of the odors and now they were nearly intolerable to his heightened sense of smell. The odors were familiar yet strange; the wood burning in the fireplace, the searing of meat, the greasy waste from the man-creatures, the odd smell of domestic livestock as compared to wild animals. Footsteps clacking on the hardwood floor sounded loud as drum beats to its sensitive ears. Sasquatch wondered how creatures as smelly and noisy as this had been able to survive in this wilderness. They were nothing like the Red Man who didn’t fight nature but lived with it and became part of it.
As it waited it thought of the great differences between itself and this new type of man. Man had to live in crude wooden boxes otherwise he would die from exposure. His food had to be seared by fire. Why? He had to weave plant fibers together to keep out the cold as he had no natural hair covering for his body. It was a wonder they had survived at all.
Old memories began to surface. He remembered a long ago confrontation with his father’s father. A member of their clan had been speared by the humans, lingered for a day, then died. There was chaos in the camp for a time, a calling by the young to exact revenge for the death. The elder Sasquatch spoke. Out of respect all listened.
“To kill one human would be to bring the wrath of the entire species down on us. Their reasoning is that as they are made in the image of their God then surely they must be the nearest thing to God on this Earth. They reason that gives them the right to play God, to say what is to live and what is to die. They kill, not only for food which is justifiable, but also for sport. They actually enjoy taking life. The act of killing gives them a feeling of great satisfaction and superiority. In their pitiful minds they see themselves nearly as gods. But turn the tables. Consider killing one of them, as many of you are now contemplating. Perhaps they were endangering your young or, as now, took the life of one of our own in their ignorant belief that we are dangerous. For whatever reason you fight back. And what would be the outcome? One human injured or dead. How many of our fellow creatures would then be slaughtered to exact payment for that one ignorant, murderous human? They can push us to the brink of extinction but we cannot fight back. We must put our thoughts of vengeance aside, not for ourselves but for our loved ones who would surely die as a result of our actions. Vengeance would be sweet for a time then quickly sour. As always our only recourse is to move still farther back into the wilderness. The humans deserve our pity, not our hate. They are as spoiled children who will one day reap the bitter harvest of the seeds they now sow. We should pray to God, the God of all living things, that they grow up soon, before it is too late. Is not the God of one the God of all? Pray.”
Sasquatch cringed at the cruel bite the memories of lost loved ones inflicted. Their numbers were few now and scattered to the wind. Suddenly he tensed, ready for swift action, alerted by movement near the window. A tiny voice muffled by the pane of glass chirped birdlike from the inside. Sasquatch’s curiosity was aroused. This was not the voice of the female human. It was not even the voice of an adult human. It was that of a man-child. Sasquatch was in turmoil. He thought for the first time of his similarities to man. Maybe their common ground was children. Sasquatch’s mate would have given birth the following spring had she lived, giving hope that the race would not die out after many thousands of years of existence. Sasquatch hesitated in his plan to harm the woman.
“All children are the same whether human or not. Innocence is their birthright. This man-child has done no wrong. Nor has the female. What purpose would be served by their deaths other than to burden this world with yet more grief and hatred?”
His massive head swung skyward and he gazed at the countless blazing suns set in the backdrop of night. A hot tear burned its way down the creatures confused face.
“Taking a life out of revenge will not bring back the Giver-of-Life. The Old Ones were wise. Perhaps it is the will of the Giver of the Giver-of-Life that we pass into oblivion. Will the world mourn the loss of a few such as we or will it simply forget or even deny we ever existed, such has been our success at keeping hidden. Has there been meaning and purpose or simply existence? Confusion reigns. Sadness overwhelms the senses. Despair wreaks havoc on the will to live.”
He directed his gaze up the valley seeing the pinpoints of torchlight announcing the men’s return slowly winding down the trail. Sasquatch was unaccustomed to the extremes of emotion he had been experiencing. The sorrow of losing his mate had changed to hate and murderous rage. Now the sorrow returned. Great sadness oppressed him as he thought of the lonely grave near the top of the mountain wherein lay his dead mate and unborn child. Once again the tears flowed freely.
“Cry. Cry for the children who will never feel the sun warm upon their faces or the wind in their hair as they run happy and free through the mountain valleys. Eternity unfolds. The forever void has engulfed the light of the world. The Angel of Death has taken her away. Mourn. Mourn for the children that will never be. The Giver-of-Life has gone.”
The pinpoints of light grew closer. Masculine voices could be heard drifting across the meadow. Silent as a great owl Sasquatch crossed the meadow, entered the tree line and started to climb the familiar grade. Fog surrounded and concealed the massive creature as it picked its way up the mountain slope which seemed steeper than before, the stones sharper, the air painfully cold. Up it traveled, up to the ridge, then over.
Smoke from the chimney continued its mindless journey. A figure hovered at the window, a smile materializing on the plump face. Tears formed in the worried eyes. Footfalls on the stony path became louder and men could be heard talking.
“Well,” Brash said, “It probably found a hole to crawl into and die. I hope death came to it quickly.
Jason couldn’t hide his disappointment but agreed. “So do I. But I do wish it had held on a bit longer. Once the cries stopped we didn’t have a prayer of finding it.”
Wyler spoke up. “I prayed fervently that we wouldn’t find it. My prayer was answered. Thank the good Lord! Maybe there is hope yet.”
Light from the cabin brightened their outlooks and quickened their paces. Brash nudged Jason and said with a grin, “It was a great adventure but now I’ve got pork roast and potatoes waiting, along with a skein of ale. And you, father Wyler-afraid-of-devils, you shall be my guest tonight. We’ve plenty of food and a spare bed and a keg of ale. Ah, I would bet the wife has been worried. What a comfort to a fool such as I. What would I do without her?”
The group of hunters made their way cautiously along an ill-defined trail leading into the mountains. Tendrils of fog swirled about their ankles like the fingers of a monstrous hand. But for the melancholy cry caressing the night and the hunter’s boots upon the rocky path there was no sound. Not a word had passed between them since the trail took its upward swing. No words were necessary; each man knew where he was headed and why. Their flaring torches held back the night as they pressed up the increasingly steep trail, the men having lost a great deal of their boisterous courage exhibited earlier at the Cat’s Eye Pub, their mutual camaraderie now shared in mutual silence.
Far up the path the wailing persisted, drawing the men closer. To the hunters it seemed to be the lament of an animal mourning the loss of it’s very soul, as if it were caught in the savage jaws of an enormous trap, the pitiless iron teeth biting cruelly into tender flesh. It was a cry that touched the heart and moved the soul to compassion, instilling in one the desire to caress and comfort.
Most of the men were experienced trackers and knew full well the most dangerous animal of all is a wounded one such as the one they were after. In the mind of each man resided the knowledge that the beast, whatever it may be, was not held fast in a trap and could easily turn the hunters into the hunted. Great caution was called for. Each step into the gloom saw the men’s courage seep slowly away as the comforting lights of home were swallowed by distance and fog.
Desmond Wyler, not a hunter or tracker but a disillusioned ex-priest and semi-permanent fixture of the Cat’s Eye, broke the silence, his quavering voice high pitched with fear. “I can’t go on!”
The unexpected words leapt at the men like a specter from the shadows. They stopped amid gasps and short cries of alarm. Wyler trembled as he gazed at the indistinct faces of the others. “This is wrong!” he voiced, a little too loudly.
“Damn your eyes, old man!” one of the shadowy figures whispered harshly.
Wyler was unabashed. “Devils are sent to test us, to goad us to reveal our baser selves. It is not right to follow a devil to its lair. It is suicide!”
John Brash had been chosen to lead the hunt and he pounced quickly on the situation before it got out of hand. He reproached Wyler in a harsh whisper. “Keep quiet, old fool! Devils? Holy God, man, this is 1879, of a surety the church has thrown out such archaic ideas.”
“Well,” one of the others couldn’t resist saying, “They chucked out ol’ Wyler, didn’t they?”
This drew a few nervous chuckles but Wyler was unperturbed. “Of a surety they haven’t thrown out belief of the evil one.”
Brash knew he couldn’t allow the seed of fear to grow. “Well I hardly think old Satan is going to be tramping around in this wilderness at two in the morning. Get a grip on your imagination. We are after an animal, and a wounded one at that. We will find it and put it out of its misery. I’ll tolerate no more talk of devils. My God, Desmond, I think maybe you had a pint too much at the pub.”
“Well as for me,” another voice whispered out of the darkness, “I wish I was still there sippin’.”
Jason Biggs spoke up, also a little shaken by the night cries. “I don’t like to admit it, Brash, but I’ve got a case of the willies myself. Just listen… have you ever heard such an unearthly howl?”
“You put a mass of lead in its hide four hours ago, didn’t you?”
“Of a certainty I did, and fifty caliber at that.”
“Was it a devil you shot?”
Jason hesitated, grateful for the darkness that hid his blushing. “No, of course not. Suddenly I feel rather foolish.”
“We have all heard the stories, of wild men, of monsters in the lakes and Indian curses; stories told to frighten children to keep them from straying into the wilderness and being lost to us. I’m sure you and Wyler are not alone with your feelings but keep your wits about you. You shot the thing and now it is in mortal pain. For God’s sake, Jason, it’s in agony! We are hearing its death throes. It will be a mercy to finish it off.” He gazed up the trail into the fog-bound darkness. “Poor, stupid creature. Little does it realize its cries are leading us to it. At any rate the sun will be up in a few hours. Perhaps it will chase away Wyler’s devils. Come along Desmond, let’s keep moving, my bones are taking a chill.”
The procession continued with Wyler bringing up the rear, not at all swayed by Brash’s logic. Crossing himself while muttering a prayer (a prayer he doubted would be heard) he stumbled up the trail after the others, peering fearfully into the dense forest imagining unseen terrors. He was further unnerved by the spectral torchlight shadows dancing in the fog. They only added to the otherworldly eeriness of the cries.
Brash spearheaded the group. His flaming brand seemed only to magnify the gloom. The night cries intensified and Brash had to admit to himself that he was puzzled. The cries he was hearing were not cries of pain nor were they the voicing of rage. Brash had heard such cries before, at funerals and gravesites where anguished primal wails wrenched from broken human hearts filled the air.
“Such a lonely sound,” he thought. “I wonder if it is alone, the last of its kind. Most probably an old grizzly, which were killed out in these parts long before my time. Perhaps it was an old hermit passing through, a solitary wanderer searching vainly for a mate. Jason said the thing he shot was huge and fur covered though in the darkness he could make out little else, other than the fact it had been feasting on a spring lamb. So there it is, we are after a wounded bear. What could be more dangerous? I hope the howling will continue as it is our only guide. Dear God, what a heart-rending sound it is.”
Sprawled over a freshly laid cairn of boulders near the top of the mountain was the beast; half again as tall as a man, barrel chest, massive arms and legs like the trunks of trees, and a head which seems to sit squarely on the shoulders. A cry of misery issued from it as desperate tears trickled through coarse facial hair. The creatures emotions were in turmoil:
“I walk alone. The forest lies still. My heart cries. The death of the Giver-of-Life
has made my existence unbearable. The man-creatures have removed her from
my side. Their greed and over-hunting have driven away the food animals, forcing
us to procure our food in ever dangerous ways. We have always shared our home
with the Red Man, the first people, who were also driven out by this new man. We
have grown in the Red Man’s legends as they have in ours. We have always shared, keeping ourselves hidden as is our nature. But this new breed of man does not share,
he takes till there is no more. The Maker-of-the-New, in her hunger, slew a man’s
animal, a low quality domestic beast. For that one desperate act of hunger she was
mortally wounded. God of all, where is their mercy?”
Sasquatch rose painfully from the rocks, overwhelmed with grief. Unfamiliar feelings roiled within him. Despair turned itself inside out and yielded to rage. Massive hands clenched into fists of unbridled fury. He trembled before the concealed grave of his dead mate.
“I will show man the mercy he has shown us. My blood boils. My anger seethes within me like angry worms. The vials of wrath scream to be released. My mate of many seasons bled her life away in my arms –these arms- the arms that will crush the man-creatures… the murderers!”
Throwing its clenched fists skyward Sasquatch bellowed in rage and unleashed its fury on a nearby tree, rending it savagely, stripping bark with nail hard claws, splintering branches, shrieking fiercely like the enraged beast it was.
The sudden onslaught stunned and horrified the hunters. John Brash cried out, “AAHHHH! What the…?!”
The valley walls reverberated the relentless violence, echoing and re-echoing the cries so that they seemed to come from all sides. The hunters stopped sudden, eyes darting about in shocked confusion. Wyler collapsed, uttering a chaotic prayer, his legs twisting beneath him. The harsh shrieks of absolute fury rebounded off the mountain slopes, an uproar of such violence and magnitude that even Brash allowed second thoughts to enter his mind. Indeed, even a hint of Wyler’s devils passed through. Brash had never heard such a powerful sustained cry. It indicated an immense lung capacity and undoubtedly an enormous body to match. He was equally at a loss to explain the violence of timber –large timber- breaking.
As suddenly as it had begun the cacophony stopped. An eerie quiet prevailed as the final echoes dwindled and died. The blackness of the cold night closed in about the men like a suffocating shroud. The torches seemed to lose their brilliance. Brash raised a visibly shaking hand in an unnecessary gesture to keep the men quiet as his eyes and ears scanned the forest, which seemed denser now, and darker. Wyler’s barely audible prayers whispered past the men’s ears. Biggs attempted to silence him with a gesture. Wyler wailed in terror, “We are finished!”
“Quiet!” was Biggs’ stern whispered reply.
Wyler raised his terrified eyes to meet Biggs and cried, “We are all dead men!”
“Shut up, damn you!” Biggs shouted. A sharp reproachful glare from Brash made him regret his folly. He clenched his teeth in silent reprimand wishing he could summon the outburst back to whence it came.
Upon the mountain Sasquatch stood, a silent creature in the darkness, a gargoyle with fiery eyes looking out on the valley before it. Chest heaving from exertion, anger temporarily spent it stood in profound silence. A shout, a human cry, wafted up the slope and tickled his ears. Sasquatch bounded through the fog to the trail head and found concealment behind a boulder outcropping, his vigilant eyes wide and alert. Rising slowly so it could scan the valley below, it caught sight of the hunting party. Once again its anger seethed.
“Foolish men. Do you believe the fog conceals you? No, it cannot protect you. And your sticks that breathe fire and death… useless. You are in my world now. I could strike you all dead within two heartbeats. Your heads in my hands would crack as easily as the fragile eggs of a bird. Your weak bodies would offer no resistance as I pulled them apart. But no, I will not kill you. I will not show you mercy. For to kill you now would be a mercy. Where are your females, brave hunters? Where are your Givers-of-Life? Do they wait in your sturdy homes awaiting your glorious return? No! They sit in their thatched huts waiting to die! I will take them from you. Life for life, mighty hunters. You shall be in this world as I am. Alone. Come brave men, track your foe, destroy me if you can!”
A drawn out quavering moan enveloped the men. It was a painful cry containing none of the fury of moments ago. “There, you see?” Brash asked confidently, his fear abating. “It is in its death throes. Let’s put an end to its misery and return home.”
A wave of relief swept through the men. “Of course you are right,” Biggs said. “These valley walls magnify the cries, and the dark and the damned fog do nothing to ease the nerves, to say nothing about this idiot priest! We can’t allow our imagined fears to destroy us. We must take pity and destroy that poor creature. I’m starting to feel sorry for it. But now listen, Brash. It was my ball that wounded it so it should be mine that kills it.”
Brash agreed, very relieved that calm was being restored. “Yes, Jason, all glory will be yours. You’ll have a bearskin rug before your hearth this winter and a tale to tell your grandchildren.” Brash released a heartfelt laugh. It felt good to laugh and the others joined him. Jason swelled with pride thinking of a hero’s return with tales of daring and wonder to enthrall his adoring family. “Let’s get on with it,” Brash said. “Once again my bones are taking a chill. Age has robbed me of the resilience of youth. Check your guns and be alert.”
From the end of the trail the creature listened intently, its ears cupped to collect all stray bits of sound.
“Yes, fine men, ready your weapons. Kill the enemy you have so foolishly made. Do you sense my tears? Do you smell my mate’s blood upon my hands? Do you enjoy my cries?
Soon they will mingle with your own.”
“Oh! Dear Lord Jesus and the Saints preserve us!” Wyler wailed as an inhuman screech lunged at them through the mist. To draw the hunters closer Sasquatch cunningly let lose one last pathetic wail. Then, silent as a shadow, Sasquatch skirted around the men, its five-hundred pound body whispering over the forest floor quiet as a chipmunk. It emerged onto the trail far down the valley, far behind the men. Moments later it stood at the edge of the forest.
In the distance a small cabin sat on a grassy expanse bathed in moonlight. A warm yellow glow issued from the single window and slipped between the crack around the door. White smoke plumed from the chimney in the windless night, spiraling up to tickle the stars. Occasionally a shadowy form hovered near the window, then withdrew. Sasquatch had reached his objective, his quest at an end. He pondered the shadowy figure at the window:
“Giver-of-Birth. Maker-of-Men. You pace. You worry. Anxiously you await your man’s return. Miserable creature, when the brave hunter returns he will find you torn into a thousand bits of bloody flesh. He will then feel the hate I feel. He will feel my loss. He will mourn as I mourn. Nowhere on this world will he find comfort. Then, and only then, will he and I meet, as equals, with nothing to live for and nothing but hate in out hearts. Then the inevitable battle will begin. Our hate will surround and consume us and death shall be the only victor.”
Once again the shadow appeared at the window. A small hand pushed aside the curtain and a plump face peered out into the night. As the curtain rippled back into place Sasquatch made its move. It moved to the cabin swift and silent as a deer. Beside the window it stood ready for the next time the shadow appeared. The anger returned ten-fold. His lips curled back into a hideous snarl showing huge yellowed teeth as the rage within it grew. His fingers twitched spasmodically, adrenaline greatly magnifying their strength.
Strange scents from within the cabin irritated its nose. The smells weren’t all new but he had never been this close to the source of the odors and now they were nearly intolerable to his heightened sense of smell. The odors were familiar yet strange; the wood burning in the fireplace, the searing of meat, the greasy waste from the man-creatures, the odd smell of domestic livestock as compared to wild animals. Footsteps clacking on the hardwood floor sounded loud as drum beats to its sensitive ears. Sasquatch wondered how creatures as smelly and noisy as this had been able to survive in this wilderness. They were nothing like the Red Man who didn’t fight nature but lived with it and became part of it.
As it waited it thought of the great differences between itself and this new type of man. Man had to live in crude wooden boxes otherwise he would die from exposure. His food had to be seared by fire. Why? He had to weave plant fibers together to keep out the cold as he had no natural hair covering for his body. It was a wonder they had survived at all.
Old memories began to surface. He remembered a long ago confrontation with his father’s father. A member of their clan had been speared by the humans, lingered for a day, then died. There was chaos in the camp for a time, a calling by the young to exact revenge for the death. The elder Sasquatch spoke. Out of respect all listened.
“To kill one human would be to bring the wrath of the entire species down on us. Their reasoning is that as they are made in the image of their God then surely they must be the nearest thing to God on this Earth. They reason that gives them the right to play God, to say what is to live and what is to die. They kill, not only for food which is justifiable, but also for sport. They actually enjoy taking life. The act of killing gives them a feeling of great satisfaction and superiority. In their pitiful minds they see themselves nearly as gods. But turn the tables. Consider killing one of them, as many of you are now contemplating. Perhaps they were endangering your young or, as now, took the life of one of our own in their ignorant belief that we are dangerous. For whatever reason you fight back. And what would be the outcome? One human injured or dead. How many of our fellow creatures would then be slaughtered to exact payment for that one ignorant, murderous human? They can push us to the brink of extinction but we cannot fight back. We must put our thoughts of vengeance aside, not for ourselves but for our loved ones who would surely die as a result of our actions. Vengeance would be sweet for a time then quickly sour. As always our only recourse is to move still farther back into the wilderness. The humans deserve our pity, not our hate. They are as spoiled children who will one day reap the bitter harvest of the seeds they now sow. We should pray to God, the God of all living things, that they grow up soon, before it is too late. Is not the God of one the God of all? Pray.”
Sasquatch cringed at the cruel bite the memories of lost loved ones inflicted. Their numbers were few now and scattered to the wind. Suddenly he tensed, ready for swift action, alerted by movement near the window. A tiny voice muffled by the pane of glass chirped birdlike from the inside. Sasquatch’s curiosity was aroused. This was not the voice of the female human. It was not even the voice of an adult human. It was that of a man-child. Sasquatch was in turmoil. He thought for the first time of his similarities to man. Maybe their common ground was children. Sasquatch’s mate would have given birth the following spring had she lived, giving hope that the race would not die out after many thousands of years of existence. Sasquatch hesitated in his plan to harm the woman.
“All children are the same whether human or not. Innocence is their birthright. This man-child has done no wrong. Nor has the female. What purpose would be served by their deaths other than to burden this world with yet more grief and hatred?”
His massive head swung skyward and he gazed at the countless blazing suns set in the backdrop of night. A hot tear burned its way down the creatures confused face.
“Taking a life out of revenge will not bring back the Giver-of-Life. The Old Ones were wise. Perhaps it is the will of the Giver of the Giver-of-Life that we pass into oblivion. Will the world mourn the loss of a few such as we or will it simply forget or even deny we ever existed, such has been our success at keeping hidden. Has there been meaning and purpose or simply existence? Confusion reigns. Sadness overwhelms the senses. Despair wreaks havoc on the will to live.”
He directed his gaze up the valley seeing the pinpoints of torchlight announcing the men’s return slowly winding down the trail. Sasquatch was unaccustomed to the extremes of emotion he had been experiencing. The sorrow of losing his mate had changed to hate and murderous rage. Now the sorrow returned. Great sadness oppressed him as he thought of the lonely grave near the top of the mountain wherein lay his dead mate and unborn child. Once again the tears flowed freely.
“Cry. Cry for the children who will never feel the sun warm upon their faces or the wind in their hair as they run happy and free through the mountain valleys. Eternity unfolds. The forever void has engulfed the light of the world. The Angel of Death has taken her away. Mourn. Mourn for the children that will never be. The Giver-of-Life has gone.”
The pinpoints of light grew closer. Masculine voices could be heard drifting across the meadow. Silent as a great owl Sasquatch crossed the meadow, entered the tree line and started to climb the familiar grade. Fog surrounded and concealed the massive creature as it picked its way up the mountain slope which seemed steeper than before, the stones sharper, the air painfully cold. Up it traveled, up to the ridge, then over.
Smoke from the chimney continued its mindless journey. A figure hovered at the window, a smile materializing on the plump face. Tears formed in the worried eyes. Footfalls on the stony path became louder and men could be heard talking.
“Well,” Brash said, “It probably found a hole to crawl into and die. I hope death came to it quickly.
Jason couldn’t hide his disappointment but agreed. “So do I. But I do wish it had held on a bit longer. Once the cries stopped we didn’t have a prayer of finding it.”
Wyler spoke up. “I prayed fervently that we wouldn’t find it. My prayer was answered. Thank the good Lord! Maybe there is hope yet.”
Light from the cabin brightened their outlooks and quickened their paces. Brash nudged Jason and said with a grin, “It was a great adventure but now I’ve got pork roast and potatoes waiting, along with a skein of ale. And you, father Wyler-afraid-of-devils, you shall be my guest tonight. We’ve plenty of food and a spare bed and a keg of ale. Ah, I would bet the wife has been worried. What a comfort to a fool such as I. What would I do without her?”