“Funny thing about all those dinosaur footprint fossils out there in that ancient riverbed, my friends.” With his index finger and thumb rubbing his chin, he begins.
“What’s that, Jeremiah?” I am anxious for him to continue with his thought.
“There are over ten species of dinosaur footprints found in that dried up billabong.” He points his thumb over his right shoulder in the general direction of the riverbed.
“Six of those species are usually found herding together, according to other fossil studies around the world. The remaining dinosaur footprints that are present in that riverbed are of dinosaurs that are never found herding together with the others.
“Why is that Jeremiah?” Kelly asks, totally absorbed in Jeremiah’s theory.
I take out my pad and pen and begin to take notes. Kelly pulls on her sweater, since the temperature is starting to dip. Jeremiah takes a cigar out of his coat pocket and lights it. He takes great repeated puffs from the cigar, until he is finally satisfied with its glow, and then starts to speak once again.
“Because Miss Kelly, at least six of the dinosaur prints found in that riverbed are from carnivorous predator dinosaurs. You see, it should have been the natural thing for those predatory dinosaurs to attack and eat the other dinosaurs as prey. And yet, it appears that both the predator and the prey dinosaurs are strolling along down the riverbed together, hand in hand, like bloody mates. No sign of any attack, struggle, or of trying to escape. Just peacefully walking down the river, as if they were out in the country, enjoying the scenery on some kind of dinosaur outing,” he adds whimsically.
I suddenly stop taking notes and look up at Jeremiah, as his theory explanation hits me. I then look over at Kelly, who is already staring at me with her familiar questioning eyes.
“Don’t take this wrong, Jeremiah, but could you and your fellow paleontologists, be mistaken? Could it just be that those predator dinosaurs may not have always preyed upon other dinosaurs around them? I mean, look at some of the herd animals of the Serengeti, for instance. When they know the lion has just eaten a kill, they calm down and actually walk and graze very close by the pride of lions. Couldn’t that work in a similar way with the dinosaurs?” I was not a scientist, but I felt proud of the intelligently sounding argument I had offered.
“I suppose there could be a slim possibility of that,” Jeremiah says in an effort to give dignity to my question.
“But there is another reason why these prints don’t make any sense.”
“What’s that Jeremiah?” I am now kind of cocky, ready to reply with another intelligent scientific question.
“The prints are not deep enough.” As Jeremiah talks to us about dinosaurs, his arms and hands become shaded silhouettes as they gesture, eclipsing in front of the lamplight. Kelly quickly chimes in before he continues.
“I don’t understand Doctor. Why would it make any difference how deep the footprints are? Isn’t a footprint a footprint, no matter how deep it sinks into the mud?”
“Well Miss Kelly, if those dinosaurs were walking normally, they would most likely not be walking this close together, even with their own kind. They would probably be more spread out, walking slowly, eating slowly, drinking slowly, and watching out for predators.”
“What about the depth of the footprints?” I ask, starting to get a little impatient.
Jeremiah leans over and turns up the lantern on the table, until the walls of the tent dimly appear. He sits back comfortably into his lounge chair. Taking another draw from his cigar, he waits for the puff of smoke to drift up and dissipate somewhere into the darkness up above us, then continues on with his explanation.
“When any animal is grazing and walking slowly, his footprints are deeper than at other times. The full weight of the animal has a chance to manifest itself into the footprint. The slower the pace, the more the footprint sinks, according to the weight of each individual animal. These dinosaur footprints we have here are not very deep in relationship to the size of animals these footprints suggests.”
“I’m sorry Jeremiah, I’m not following you. What exactly does the depth of their footprints and their way of walking together, add up to?”
“Matt, Miss Kelly. Up there on that riverbed forty million years ago, there seems to have been a bunch of different kinds of dinosaurs, walking together at a very fast pace in one big line, heading towards a planned intentional location.”
“And what do you think that means, Dr. James?” Kelly asks politely.
“Those footprint fossils seem to reveal that someone or something was mustering up those dinosaurs.”
“Mustering up?” I ask.
“As you Yanks would say, someone was herding those dinosaurs through that riverbed.”
“You mean, forty million years ago you think someone was actually herding dinosaurs?” As I ask it, my face must have confessed my skepticism.
“If that’s true, who do you think the dinosaur herders were, Jeremiah?” I try to withdraw from my skeptical attitude, and attempt to camouflage it from my face.
“Everything we think and say about what happened forty million years ago is pure speculation mate, just bloody speculation; nothing more than an educated guess at this point.”
“If you were to speculate about whom or what was supposedly herding those dinosaurs millions of years ago, what would your guess be?”
“If I were speculatin’ man; I’d speculate they were human.”
“Do you really think that forty million years ago, humans were herding dinosaurs?” I ask.
“Yes; the feet that left footprints in that sandstone forty million years ago, at the very same time the dinosaurs left footprints, probably belonged to humans and those humans were most likely herding the dinosaurs.
If only the footprints could only talk. Better yet, if we could talk to the individuals that made those footprints, they could tell us so much. You know my friends, when it comes to knowing exactly what happened forty million years ago, it’s like we’re searching around in the dark.”
It must be after midnight, as I lay wide awake on my cot inside Jeremiah’s tent. Kelly is sleeping in another tent, somewhere with the women of the camp. Tonight’s discussion with Jeremiah raises more puzzling questions than it answers.
I lie on my back, and watch the shadows of the trees projected on the tent roof above me, created by the light of the full moon outside. With the help of the night breeze, the trees seem to be waving their wild wooden arms to get my attention. The breeze makes a shush sound, as it moves through the leaves of the trees, as if to say, ‘Please don’t tell anyone what you see.’
While I am lost in this fantasy, I see a shadow of a man walk silently up beside the tent. Because of the full moon tonight, his silhouette is unmistakable. The outline of the dark shape suggests he is wearing a bulky coat and a hat. I rise up a little, but say nothing, not wanting to wake the others. The shadow stands outside the tent motionless, as if to listen for some clandestine enlightenment. After two or three minutes, the shadow of the prowler vanishes into the darkness from which it came.
§
SEVEN
“Red sky in the morning, sailor’s warning.” The clouds in the eastern sky are painted a reddish hue this morning, reminding me of this old saying. I sit in the Land Cruiser warming the engine, waiting for Kelly to come back from the ladies’ room.
It is only seven in the morning, but we have a hot and dry drive ahead of us, back to the town of Red Rock. An hour earlier we ate breakfast with Jeremiah and his gang, told them how grateful we were, and said our good-byes.
Both Kelly and I are quiet this morning. Maybe it is because of all the dinosaur stuff going through our heads that we are trying to digest. Maybe it is because we are not looking forward to the long dusty road ahead of us. On the other hand, it may be that we are both just dog-tired from sleeping on army cots last night.
Speaking of being tired, I would love another big cup of hot coffee right now, to help me
wake up. Jeremiah has kindly sent a quart-sized thermos of the black magic potion along with us. The problem is this road will be too bumpy to drive and drink hot coffee. The little oasis we discovered on our way to Jeremiah’s place then pops into my mind. I decide that it will be a perfect location to take a break.
“How are you feeling this morning?” I try to nudge Kelly and myself into some kind of conversation.
“Oh, okay I guess.” Kelly is saying only what is absolutely necessary. After a short pause of listening to the road noises in silence, she speaks once again.
“You know something kind of weird happened last night, while I was trying to sleep.”
“What do you mean? What happened?” I inquire curiously.
“Well, I was lying there, and everything was quiet. When I turned over on my side, I saw a shadowy figure standing right outside of the tent. It looked like it was a man just standing there. After a little while, he was gone. It gave me the creeps. I couldn’t sleep all night.”
The pot-holed road before us looks like it has been bombed, as if we were driving through some kind of old battlefield. I quickly steer clear of a large hole in the road. As we both are jostled from my driving maneuvers.
“The same thing happened to me, last night. If your shadow was wearing a hat like mine was; it probably was the same guy.”
“Yes, the one that stood outside my tent looked as if he was wearing a hat.” She thinks about it for a moment and then gives her conclusion.
“You know, I never told Jeremiah about it. I bet he would have told us both that he has security guards working at night. I bet that is who he was, a security guard.”
“I don’t know; maybe you’re right.” I don’t want to alarm her with some of my own fantastic suspicions.
After a long hour on the road, the dried up Skull Creek appears again, this time on our right. Soon we approach the little oasis of cottonwood and willow trees. I pull off the main ruts of the road and stop. Both Kelly and I slowly emerge from the vehicle, sore and aching from this whole raw travel experience.
Thinking it might be a good idea to check the water level in the radiator; I go in front of the Land Cruiser and raise the hood. Kelly takes the coffee and some water over towards the pool of water underneath the trees. She unfolds a small blanket she brought with her, sits down and patiently waits for me to follow.
We are bestowed with a Prussian blue sky today; its beauty dominating over the red earth that encircles us. I detect the subtle fragrance of willow and cottonwood trees in the air, and can even smell the dampness of the spring, where bubbling fresh cool water escapes from its prison of the parched dry earth.
As I walk over to where Kelly is waiting, I notice two renegade dust devils to the north, slowly moving across the open savanna away from us, each one rising a hundred feet or higher. I watch them for a moment or two, until they disappear.
As I approach Kelly she exhibits a sweet smile, pats the blanket space beside her, and invites me to sit down.
I sit down next to Kelly, make myself comfortable, and began to listen to the bubbling spring express itself a few feet away.
When I was a child, I remember a small aquarium in my room that contained three goldfish. At first, the bubbling noises coming from the aquarium would keep me up at night. The foreign bubbling noise in my room seemed to install monsters of the deep in my head, making it hard to sleep. Not until the wee morning hours came and offered light, would I be able to disregard the bubbling noise and fall asleep.
Soon however, instead of fearing the bubbling noise as an enemy, I looked at it as a gentle friendly ally, and depended on it every night to comfort me to sleep. As I watch and listen to the agreeable sound created by this little desert lagoon, that same comforting feeling of my childhood comes back to my mind.
I now allow myself to indulge in a daydream; a daydream that paints Kelly as a beautiful Arabian princess. With an inviting smile she asks me to lie down beside her, amid this desert oasis of Shangri-La that we both have uncovered.
Unfortunately, only in the far cobwebbed recesses of my mind and in movies, do such daydreams become realities.
“Matt, are you okay?” Kelly inquires of me, with a slightly concerned expression on her face.
“Yeah I am great.”
“Well I was just wondering. You have that kind of far-off spacey look in your eyes.”
“I guess I was in another world, daydreaming or something.”
“Don’t worry about it, Matt; you deserve a good daydream now and again.
Tell me, what were you daydreaming about? I’ll give you a dollar if you tell me,” she offers, mischievously.
“Oh it’s nothing really, I‘m just road-weary and not daydreaming of anything much at all.”
“OK then, if you want to keep it to yourself.” Her eyes twinkle in doubt. It’s a good thing she does not possess the power to read my mind, I think to myself.
She extends her arm out towards me, presenting me with a cup of hot coffee. As I drink the black magic potion, I am infused with hope and confidence once again.
While I take another sip of coffee, I notice Kelly taking great pains in making sure that her blue jeans are tidy. She always seems to be constantly busy, brushing and folding her clothes.
On the other hand, I pride myself in being a bum I guess. I think I gave up on how good I look somewhere between the town of Red Rock and Jeremiah’s Park. I still am wearing the same clothes I started this trip in, and I haven’t bathed or shaved since I left Portland. I’m sure by now, Kelly wishes she could drive back to Red Rock alone. By virtue of her character and style however, she has said nothing of my degradation, and continues to be her usual sweet self.
We engage in small talk, and continue to enjoy the peace and quiet of this uninhabited place. After a while, I look at my wristwatch and see that our time of peace is coming to an end. I look up at Kelly, who already is nodding her head at me, understanding of the need to leave. I help her pick up our belongings, and we both head for the car.
As we walk slowly toward the Land Cruiser, Kelly turns around abruptly, looking towards the shaded area where our blanket has been spread.
“I know that was a nice place Kelly, but…”
“Shush Matt, be quiet!” For a moment the breeze wandering through the trees is the only sound we hear.
“What’s wrong Kelly, did you hear something?”
Continuing to look in the direction of the trees, she finally speaks.
“Yes, I thought I heard something.”
“What did you hear?” My male ego now takes over. I am sure she heard nothing at all, and is only tired, emotional, and quite possibly a little paranoid.
“It’s okay, let’s go.” My mouth is still warm from these words, when I hear a faint sound of a voice off in the distance.
“There, did you hear that?” Kelly says, in delight.
“Yes, I heard it that time. It sounds like it is coming from the trees.”
“Help me; please help me.” The weak sound of a voice comes again. The sound is so weak that it competes with the sound of the wind in order to be audible.
As we stand there waiting for something to happen, a draft of wind whips the ground we are standing on, engulfing us in a cloud of red dust. As the dust begins to settle, we wipe our eyes clear, brush off our clothes, and continue listening for the voice of the unknown.
“Help me! Help me!” The sound of the voice, like a mournful groan, comes again.
“Someone is hurt. They need help.” With an emotional panic, Kelly raises her voice.
I begin to walk towards the clump of trees and notice Kelly is not following by my side. I turn around and see a timid, sheepish look on Kelly’s face.
“You stay here, I’ll go check it out,” I try to express it with compassion. Kelly is grateful for the gesture and smiles in appreciation.
“Thanks. I’ll wait over there by the car.”
I walk until I am standing on the very spot Kelly h
ad spread our blanket moments before, each step I take implying caution. I listen intently, but hear nothing. My eyes begin to follow the complete circumference of the awning of shady trees around me. I hear nothing except for the gurgling water of the spring and the wind jostling through the trees.
“Please help me,” the voice emerges again, this time with more of an enticing, inviting tone. It sounds as if the faint voice is coming
from above. I focus my eyes on the base of the sand dune that begins just behind the trees, and follow it up above, beyond the trees.
There, on top of the monument of sand stands a man watching me, less than a hundred yards away. He stands in front of the sun and displays a familiar silhouette. I see an image of a man wearing a hat and a long coat. I raise my arm and wave to him.
“Do you need help?” I yell so I can be heard over the wind. He fails to respond. The only movement I can detect is that of his hat and coat flapping with the wind. All of a sudden, he retreats and walks away out of sight.
“What’s going on Matt?” Kelly yells from the Land Cruiser. I raise my hand up to her like a traffic cop directing a car to stop.
Thinking the man atop the sand dune could be hurt or be in an emergency situation, I take off up the sand dune after him.
“Where are you going? Wait!” Kelly calls after me, in alarm.
Owing to the fact that my mind is vacant of all else except the man on the sand dune, I do not register Kelly’s plea. With adrenaline pumping I feel capable of flight, making a rush for the top of the sand dune, without totally understanding why I am going.
The sand dune does not allow me an easy access to its summit. With each two steps of effort I exhaust, I slide back down the dune’s face the equivalent of one. Finally, after much effort, I step up onto the crest of the sand dune. With nothing to serve as a shroud against the wind, a burst of sand-filled turbulence hits me like a sledgehammer.
My sand-filled eyes comb the horizon in all directions, as I hunt for the illusive stranger in trouble. I see no one. Far below me, I see Kelly walking away from the vehicle in the direction of the base of the sand dune.
Wyatt, Richard Page 6
