Joko (18 page)

He had been picking berries in a sunny clearing. A swarm of bees was swirling nearby. Their humming had masked the sound of the other sasquatch as they quietly surrounded him.

Suddenly he smelled them. With his mouth and both hands full of berries, Jocko stood up to find himself surrounded by a family of five mountain people. The male was directly in front of him, only a few feet away. He simply stood there, a monolith of fur and muscle, perhaps eight or nine feet tall.

The female, nearly as large, positioned herself directly behind the male, hidden from Jocko’s view. But Jocko knew she was there, he could smell she was in her time. Behind Jocko were three young, two sisters and a large male. They were older and bigger than Jocko. Like the parents, they had remained motionless, watching and waiting. Jocko turned around slowly. He paused to look at the children and took a step toward them as a gesture of his status as a male child: back turned to the adult, joining the children.

The right thing to do
, he thought. But apparently that was not the case. The male called to Jocko and howled softly:

“OOOOooooooa!” The male repeated the call and the others joined him.

Though it was a soft sound, it cut through him. Jocko was being called a wolf. A lone wolf.

He had heard that call all his life but never realized it referred to himself. He was the lone wolf he’d heard about all his life. He was the odd man out.

When Jocko returned to the nest he found Johnny leaning over the dead bear, pocketknife in hand, peeling the hide from the grizzly and whistling a tune.

Johnny knew little about the art of skinning and tanning hides, but the chilly nights in the Olympic forest had forced him to give the matter some thought. Their first week in the woods had seriously undermined Johnny’s confidence in himself. He knew he had to take action if he was to survive, but he had no clue as to what action to take. Skinning the bear seemed as good place to start as any.

Johnny jumped when Jocko appeared, as usual, out of nowhere, but he shrugged off his fright with a cheerful hello.

He was glad to be up and doing something, however unpleasant the task. “My aunt used to say; waste not, want not,” he said. “This hide ain’t doin’ no good to the bear so I may as well use it. Nights are cold here. ’Sides, I didn’t expect to be dumped without my stuff.”

Jocko gave Johnny a handful of berries and sat down on a log to watch. Johnny put down his knife and sat down beside him. He touched Jocko’s arm.

“You know, we can’t stay here forever, Jocko. We’ve got to move on. But to where I can’t say.”

“Moooo-von,” replied Jocko.

Johnny nodded and smiled. “That’s a cracker-jack.”

They sat for a moment, staring at the bloodied bear carcass. Finally Jocko pointed to it and looked questioningly at Johnny.

Johnny shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah, pretty sloppy work, I guess. You never saw an animal skinned like this, did you?” He looked down at his bloody hands and knife. “To tell the truth, neither have I.

“By the way, thanks for the berries, my friend.” added Johnny, getting up. He popped a few bloodstained berries in his mouth, then took a deep breath and returned to his grim work.

It took him most of the afternoon to finish skinning the bear. Flies and the smell of raw flesh filled the damp forest air. The longer Johnny worked the sicker he became, until finally he stood up with the bearskin in hand. For a moment he was pleased with himself. Then he stared down at the grizzly. It looked hauntingly like the flayed corpse of a man.

“God, forgive me,” he said as a wave of nausea overtook him.

Johnny ducked behind a bush and vomited.

The sasquatch had watched the process with great interest. As disgusting as the activity was, Jocko seemed fascinated by it. And when Johnny lost his breakfast, Jocko found it very funny. He almost fell off the log laughing.

Johnny looked at Jocko. “I suppose this is all very entertaining to you,” he chided. “But you have a fur coat, don’t you?”

Jocko continued to laugh. Despite his link with the boy, the logic behind this and most other human activity remained a complete mystery. He’d watched the entire process of the skinning and learned nothing.

Jocko had spent a lot of time wondering about the mysterious activities of humans. What made them so different from the sasquatch? Why did some humans hate nature and destroy it, while others planted flowers and shaped the land?

Why did they build dwellings or use fire? And why did humans hate and fear their cousins, the sasquatch?

Jocko had pondered these questions often, perhaps too often for his own good.

As Jocko watched Johnny he thought of the sasquatch family he’d encountered. Why did they reject him?

All his life he had been different from the others. He remembered asking his family about humans and being chided for wanting to know. Their reaction confused him.

Didn’t the sasquatch want to know about the humans they worked so hard to avoid? Didn’t they want the same answers he did? Jocko never got his answer. He only knew his curiosity had gotten him to where he was now, lost with a human as a companion on an alien land.

Jocko thought back to where his adventure had begun.

He remembered being high on a bluff, overlooking a river, when shining railroad tracks caught his eye. He heard a train coming. Then he saw it, billowing black smoke. It fascinated him. His family wanted to flee, but Jocko wanted to stay and watch the train. Then he fell.

How was that possible? He had never fallen before.

Jocko searched his memory. There was something more.

He tried to remember.

Had he been pushed?

Johnny held up the bearskin triumphantly, fur on one side and bloody gore on the other.

“What do you think?” he asked Jocko. “Messy, I suppose, huh?” Johnny dragged the pelt to the stream, threw it in, and began washing it. The clear water soon blushed with the blood of the bear. Soon it became so waterlogged that Johnny found it difficult to lift. Jocko helped him drag it from the stream and hang it over a limb to dry. Then they both went back to the nest and sat down.

Johnny took a root from a makeshift larder he’d made in the bed of ferns. In it were leftover vegetables and fruit that Jocko had foraged. He munched the root thoughtfully, savoring its tart-sweet qualities. “This root is okay, I guess,” he said, looking it over doubtfully. “Is this wild parsnip? It’s good, but I miss real food: meat, potatoes, and coffee. God, I’d love some coffee.”

Jocko listened to Johnny. “Coff-ee,” he said. “Coff-ee.”

Johnny smiled. “You’re starting to get it, aren’t you?” He held up the root and said: “Not coffee … root!”

Jocko said nothing.

“Root,” Johnny repeated.

“Rooot,” said Jocko.

“There you go,” said Johnny with a smile. “It’s a root.

Yummmm. Good to eat root.”

Jocko smiled back at him. “Good root.”

Johnny’s eyes dropped. “I don’t know if you understand me or not.”

Jocko took the root from Johnny’s hand and took a bite.

He looked at the root and chewed vigorously, then he looked into Johnny’s eyes and said: “Rooot…. yum.”

“Hey, I think you understand me after all,” said Johnny.

Jocko eagerly took another bite, and then handed it back to Johnny.

“Yummmmm,” he said, rubbing his belly. For the next few minutes they sat quietly, sharing the root and smiling at one another.

By the tenth day after leaving the boat, they were both ready to move on. While Jocko had been practicing his English, Johnny had practiced walking in the dense forest. The path between their nest and the spring-fed stream was well worn from Johnny’s frequent falls, and Johnny’s body seemed to be continually sprouting new bruises and scrapes.

Now that Jocko was learning to speak his language,

Johnny had to be careful. That morning, as Johnny tried to wake up by washing his face by the stream, both feet slipped and he slid, screaming, into deepest part of the pool. He ended up seated chest deep in the icy creek.

“Goddam, shit!” yelled Johnny.

“Got … ham … ssiffff!” echoed Jocko from the nest. Then a moment later he added: “spooosh.”

Johnny wasn’t amused. It took him all afternoon to dry off and then it was too late to begin their travels. The next morning Johnny and Jocko left the nest, even though Johnny’s boots had not fully dried. Jocko took the lead while Johnny stumbled along, lugging the bear hide, which he had laboriously trimmed to a manageable size, under one arm.

After a few paces Johnny looked back. Their temporary home was already lost to his view in the verdant tangle of greenery.

He knew he’d probably never see this spot again and it seemed sad, considering the life and death struggle he and Jocko had endured there.

They headed southwest toward the mountains. Johnny remembered the map aboard the ship and knew they would eventually have to go southeast toward Puget Sound if they were to ever get back to Yale. He estimated it might be years before he saw his aunt Gert again.

Jocko instinctively guided them toward the mountains, where he knew men seldom go. Following game trails, he took a position behind Johnny so that he could catch him if he fell, but the ground was unforgiving, and after a while it seemed to Johnny the forest floor had turned against him.

After an hour of climbing toward higher ground, Johnny grew bone-weary. He had already fallen so many times he hurt all over, despite Jocko’s help. But he pressed on, hoping they would find a suitable place to rest.

Life was all around them, watching the two travelers as they moved laboriously around hopeless tangles of brush and huge fallen trees. Chipmunks, birds, frogs, and insects scattered and shouted warnings at their approach, each animal protesting their intrusion in its own way. Insects swirled around them, stinging or biting any exposed bit of flesh Johnny presented to them. And the bearskin was beginning to smell terrible.

Each time they stopped to rest, Johnny hung the skin some distance away, as a diversion to the flies and to gain respite from its smell. He supposed if they ever found a place to stay he would spend more time cleaning the hide.

All the while, Jocko was the model of patience. Johnny marveled that in spite of Jocko’s fairly pungent odor the insects seemed to avoid him. Johnny credited Jocko’s fur with warding the creatures off but wondered if his smell didn’t put them off as well, but he dismissed the idea immediately.

Still, all that seemed to interest the flies was Jocko’s face, and then only occasionally. The bare flesh on his hands and feet offered no purchase to the mosquitoes because it was so rough and calloused.

Jocko ignored the bugs, but it was plain they were tormenting Johnny. They would fly into Johnny’s face and eyes, causing him to stumble. Jocko remembered an old trick he’d learned from his family during a particularly bad mosquito invasion.

He pulled some leaves and twigs from a tree he recognized and crushed them until his hands were covered with their fragrant oil, then rubbed it on Johnny’s face and neck. He handed the crushed leaves to Johnny.

As he acted on Johnny’s behalf, he realized how horrified his family would be if they saw him caring for a human. It bothered him that he didn’t share their aversion to humans.

Now, separated from his kin for the first time in his life, Jocko realized how different he was from them.

Jocko watched Johnny swatting and swearing at a large green fly that kept lighting on his matted hair. Was the human so different from his kin?

Johnny stopped walking as Jocko began to strip a small bush of its leaves. He watched with interest as Jocko tore at the leaves and crushed them in his hands. A waft of familiar smell hit Johnny immediately. “Sassafras!” he exclaimed. Before he could ask what Jocko was doing, the sasquatch approached him and rubbed the leaves on Johnny’s face. Then Jocko handed the leaves to him and pointed to Johnny’s bare hands and ankles.

“Sassss-a-fffassss,” said Jocko.

As the scent of the plant surrounded him, Johnny saw the insects leaving and rejoiced. “Good going, Jocko, old boy!”

Johnny eagerly rubbed the oily leaves on his forearms and his ankles. He grinned in appreciation at Jocko. “What other tricks do you know?”

Jocko just looked at him blankly. When he was satisfied he’d taken care of Johnny’s problem he turned and pointed to the deer trail. “Jo-cko, Jooo-neee, Go,”

“Anything you say, skipper,” said Johnny cheerfully.

By noon they had cleared the worst of the swamp and were on drier ground. Here there was more sunshine and some broad meadows that allowed them easier passage.

By late afternoon Johnny had to stop. They had come upon a small clearing near a tall rock face that had a cave opening some distance above where they were standing.

“That looks like a likely den,” said Johnny, pointing up at the cave.

Jocko scaled the wall without hesitation and inspected the cleft in the rock, disappearing from Johnny’s view. A moment later he reappeared and signaled Johnny to climb up to where he stood.

One last push
, thought Johnny as he began his climb. His head throbbed with each beat of his heart, and despite the cool dry weather sweat stung as it dripped into his eyes.

A narrow break in the rock face served as a good pathway to the top, and sooner than he expected Johnny found himself out of breath, looking into the cave. Jocko sat waiting for him chewing on a root he’d found on his way up the rocks.

Johnny squinted into the darkness. “No doubt about it, Jocko. This is your world, not mine,” he said, gasping for air.

Johnny flopped down beside Jocko and swore, remembering he’d left his bearskin at the foot of the cliff.

He started to get up, but the pain in his head compelled him to remain still. He groaned and leaned back against the limestone. “Well,” he said, “maybe in a while, I’ll just …”

Johnny shifted his bones and grimaced in pain.