Creature Keepers and the Swindled Soil-Soles

by Peter Nelson

  “I don’t know what this is all about,” Jordan said. “But we’re here on real business, and we need to meet the real Hap Cooperdock. He’s an important person with important responsibilities and he’s, well, he’s younger than you. About seventy-five years younger. So if you can’t take us to see him, I suggest you just—”

  “Cram it, Grimsley!” The old man cut him off. “I figured Bernard would send me a couple of stiffs, but if you wanna learn how to be a Creature Keeper, you gotta do more listenin’ and less yappin’, man!”

  Jordan was confused. “But—you can’t be Hap Cooperdock. According to the CKCC Handbook, all Keepers must be between the ages of eleven and fifteen. . . .”

  “Man, you’re just like your grandfather—all about the rules. Well, at least you’ll have that much in common with Syd—” He suddenly slapped his hand over his mouth as if he’d said too much, and looked up at the sky again.

  “You seem paranoid all of a sudden,” Abbie said. “Everything okay?”

  “No, no, everything’s fine. Just fine. It’s all gonna be fine.”

  Jordan and Abbie traded glances. Jordan came to a terrible realization. He felt shame and embarrassment rise up in him like a cold sweat. “Mr. Cooperdock, I think I owe you an apology. This is hard for me to say, but it’s my fault you’re so old.”

  “Why, because you destroyed the entire secret stash of Fountain of Youth elixir that kept all us Creature Keepers young and able to do our sacred work? Forget it, kid.”

  Jordan’s mouth hung open as Hap suspiciously eyed a field of cows, then glanced back at Jordan. “Listen. Whatever you did, it was no lint on my baloney. I ain’t old because I quit taking that elixir. I’m old because I never took that elixir. Ingesting some weird liquid that keeps you in a childlike state? Too far out, even for me, man. Unnatural. Not to mention dishonest.”

  “And your—er, large-footed roommate—he’s okay with that?” Abbie whispered. “He didn’t freak out when you turned into a grown-up?”

  Hap glanced in the rearview mirror. “You’ll have plenty of time to ask him yourself.” Hap turned the radio back up. “Enough talking. Never know who could be listening.”

  It was midafternoon when they pulled into the Harrison Lake area. After a long, tense, silent drive, both Jordan and Abbie were relieved to see clusters of tents, campers, and other recreational vehicles in the vast space. They passed a sign at the entrance to the lot that read:

  “This must be the place,” Jordan said, reading the sign.

  “Sasquatch Park?” Abbie said. “Subtle.”

  They parked and stepped out of the Volkswagen. Jordan and Abbie immediately noticed, less than ten feet away, a large, hairy bigfoot lumbering past. Another one, about twenty feet away, stepped into a port-a-potty holding a magazine. A shorter one, carrying a big red cooler and a bag of chips, stepped in front of them as he headed for a nearby picnic table. “’Sup, guys,” he said.

  The place was crawling with bigfeet. Every fifth person or so was in some sort of homemade Sasquatch costume.

  “Is this a convention?” Jordan asked. “Why’s everyone dressed like Syd?”

  Hap crawled into the back of the bus and slid open the side door. He tossed out Jordan’s backpack, then Abbie’s. “This is a government-operated park. But lately it’s morphed into something different. A tourist attraction. For BuckHeads.”

  “BuckHeads?” Abbie said.

  “Fans of that TV show, where the host searches for”—he shifted to a whisper—“Syd.” Hap suddenly grinned at a few passing oddballs, one in a poorly stitched costume, two others in bigfoot-themed T-shirts.

  “What TV show?” Abbie said. “World’s Weirdest Weirdos?”

  “That Buck Wilde guy’s show. Searchin’ for Squatchy, or something.”

  “Buck Wilde: Squatch-Seeker!” Jordan said. Abbie looked at him. “I watch it for research. It’s bogus. Every episode the guy finds some faked evidence, then nothing.”

  “Buck and his crew work out of a big broadcasting RV parked at the entrance to the forest area,” Hap said. He seemed more comfortable in an open, public place. “They go deep into the wilderness back there, film themselves with night-vision cameras, root around for Syd, then beam it out live all over the place, including to a coupla jumbo screens set up for the die-hard BuckHeads. Folks dress like Syd to show their pride, I guess. It’s Squatchstock. Kind of a groovy, Squatchy vibe, actually.”

  “This is a lot of people,” Abbie said. “Is Syd close by?”

  Hap stepped out of the VW bus. “NO,” he yelled in a super-loud voice, like he wanted others within a ten-mile radius to hear him. “THE ONE YOU CALL SYD IS NOT HERE, NOR ANYWHERE IN THIS VICINITY, RANDOM HITCHHIKING CHILDREN! BUT I SHALL SOON LEAVE AND RETURN TO HIM, ON MY OWN, IN THIS BRIGHTLY COLORED, EASILY TRACKABLE VOLKSWAGEN BUS WITH A BIG FOOT ON TOP!”

  Hap glanced around, then sidled up to Jordan and slipped him a stack of books and maps. “Take these,” he whispered out of the side of his mouth.

  “Okay,” Jordan whispered back. “But why are we whispering?”

  “And why are you so crazy?” Abbie also whispered, mocking them both.

  Hap climbed into the driver’s seat and slowly scanned the perimeter. Then he waved the two of them over. Abbie and Jordan stood at the driver’s-side window.

  “Okay. It’s safe to tell you guys now, for your own protection,” Hap said.

  “Tell us what?” Jordan asked. “If Syd’s not here, why are we here?”

  “Because this is as close as I can get you to him. And this is where I leave you.”

  “What?” Jordan said. “What are you talking about?”

  Hap spoke in hushed tones. “The word among the Creature Keepers is that Gusto survived. We all heard about how Gusto got to Quisling, the Jackalope’s Keeper, a few months back. And then how he stole Nessie right out from under her Keeper’s nose! Alistair MacAlister! One of the best there is!” Hap tried to calm down. He was sweating a bit as he glanced around the parking lot. “And now, the word is, he wants to get to others. Now the word is, Gusto’s coming for me.”

  “You?” Abbie said.

  “Yeah,” he said softly. “To get to Syd.”

  “Who told you this?” Jordan said.

  “We Keepers are rarely able to communicate, but news gets passed along through the CKCC emissaries. They used to come regularly, to deliver the elixir—”

  “I thought you said you didn’t get the elixir,” Abbie said suspiciously.

  “I said I didn’t take it,” Hap whispered. “Never said I didn’t get it.” He looked at Jordan. “The Global Cryptid Positioning System devices. We all got them, and they were delivered by the CKCC delivery folks.”

  “And they were your source for this information,” Jordan said.

  “When you’ve got no one but a big furry creature to talk to for years on end, any bit of news from the outside is like serving up a double cheeseburger to a starving man.”

  “So it could be a rumor,” Abbie said. “You don’t know it’s true.”

  “I don’t know that it ain’t. As Syd’s Keeper, I can’t take any chances.”

  “Alert the CKCC,” Jordan said. “They’ll send you whatever you need.”

  “No one’s too confident about the CKCC right now. Besides failing to protect Quisling and Mac, they let some kid destroy the entire elixir supply!” He glanced at Jordan. “No offense, kid.” Jordan looked down at the ground as Hap continued. “There was even a rumor that Eldon’s gone missing, and joined the other side, man!”

  “That’s not true,” Jordan said. “He’d never abandon a creature. Or the CKCC.”

  “Maybe you’re right.” Hap shook his head. “But I’m just not sure I trust ’em.”

  “But you trust us?” Abbie said. “We’ve never done this before!”

  “But I know who you are. You’re George Grimsley’s grandkids. That don’t make you full-fledged Creature Keepers, but I know I can trust you guys. ’Course, the o
ne I’m really trusting to watch over Syd is right up there. . . .”

  He pointed off past the lake. Jordan and Abbie saw a distant mountain peak rising above the tree line. “Old Man Breakenridge. That’s where Syd lives. And as long as he stays on that mountain, he’s safe. All I need is for you guys to make sure that he does.”

  “I can’t believe this,” Abbie said. “How do we even get up there?”

  “First step, find

  Guy and Andre. They’re a couple of French-Canadian brothers. Local businessmen. They run a paddleboat rental shack by the lake. They make a little on the side selling T-shirts to the BuckHeads. You’ll find ’em over with the rest of the Squatch freaks. Once you get up the north end of Harrison Lake, consult the map I gave you. It’s all in there.”

  “But I don’t know the first thing about caring for a Sasquatch,” Jordan said.

  “That’s what the book is for, man! You’re a rule freak. There you go!” Jordan looked down at the stack of books. On top was a well-worn copy of a book titled: Raising and Caring for Your Sasquatch. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  VROOM! The VW bus started with a rattle. Jordan and Abbie took a step back as Hap stuck his head out the window and hollered again. “OKAY, HERE I GO, OFF TO MY SECRET DESTINATION, WHICH IS QUITE A LONG WAYS FROM HERE! I SURE HOPE NO ONE FOLLOWS ME AND MY BIG FOOT–MOBILE!” He winked at Jordan and Abbie.

  “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “Just make sure he sticks to his schedule, and he’ll be fine. That’s in there, too.”

  “Don’t worry, Hap,” Jordan said. “We’ll take good care of him.”

  Hap pulled out slowly, passed the Sasquatch Provincial Park sign, turned south, and headed in the opposite direction from Mount Breakenridge. Jordan and Abbie watched until the bright-orange Volkswagen bus with the crudely made brown furry foot on the roof disappear around the bend.

  Crunch-crunch. Munch.

  A pudgy guy in a snugly fitting bigfoot costume was suddenly standing beside them, eating from a bag of chips. He nodded toward the road. “Sweet ride.”

  6

  The path into Sasquatch Provincial Park led to a large clearing with picnic tables and fire pits. Beyond that, parked at the edge of the park’s thick wooded area, was a massive RV. A banner hanging across it proudly displayed the TV show logo for Buck Wilde: Squatch-Seeker! There was a makeshift front porch attached to the side of the RV that seemed to serve as some kind of stage, and a large gathering of excited fans, some in bigfoot costumes, some not, packed up against it. Hanging on trees above the crowd to the right and left of the stage were a pair of jumbo television screens. They were showing clips and highlights from Buck Wilde’s show. Jiggly action-camera shots of Buck running through the woods, night-vision goggle shots of the shadowy forest, and close-ups of Buck pointing to vague footprints in the mud were set to high-energy electric guitar riffs. It was doing a good job of getting the BuckHeads pumped up.

  As the afternoon wore on, Jordan and Abbie made their way through the rowdy crowd, searching for any French-Canadian-looking brothers selling T-shirts.

  Suddenly, the crowd began to cheer louder. They squeezed closer to the stage, catching Jordan and Abbie up with them. Abbie’s face was smushed against a rather large and furry fanny belonging to someone in a homemade Sasquatch costume. Jordan looked up at the large televisions and saw the montage had ended. In its place, a fancy 3-D logo for Buck Wilde: Squatch-Seeker! rotated onscreen. And then, there was Buck. Live and in the flesh.

  “Now what’s all this noise all about, huh?”

  “YEEEEEEAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!” The crowd went berserk at the sight of the heavyset, potbellied Buck Wilde as he stepped out of his RV and onto his porch-stage. He soaked it in with a grit-eatin’ grin, then tipped his signature catchphrase-printed trucker hat as a thank-you. He wore a plaid, sleeveless shirt and a pair of blue-jean cutoffs with muddy old boots and mismatching socks on his feet. Buck strutted up and down the stage, high-fiving all the hands and paws that reached up to touch him. Then he stood back, pulled a lasso off his belt, and swung it over his head impressively.

  “Me an’ my Buckaroo Crew came out here into nature to git me some peace and quiet! Ain’t that what y’all are here for, too?”

  “NOOOOO!” The crowd yelled back.

  “Ya don’t say! Well then what’d we all come out here to git, I wonder?” He put a hand to his ear.

  Everyone in the crowd except Abbie and Jordan screamed back as one: “TO GIT! OUR! SQUATCH! ON!”

  “Ohh . . . that’s right! Thanks for remindin’ me! We’re broadcasting live right here in the heart of Sasquatch central to catch that big, ugly critter!” Buck turned to two barrel-chested men standing just offstage. One wore a T-shirt that read, “I Got My Squatch On with Buck Wilde!,” while the other’s read, “My French-Canadian Brother Got His Squatch On and All I Got Was This Awesome T-Shirt!”

  “Andre! Guy! My French-Canadian brohams! Give the people somethin’ for helpin’ me remember why we’re here!”

  The barrel-chested men raised large-tubed cannon-guns and pointed them out over the crowd. BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! They fired the cannons, blasting official Buck Wilde T-shirts at the fans, who went crazy diving for them.

  “Mercy cowpoops, fellas!” Buck turned from Andre and Guy back to the crowd. “Now, y’all keep yer eyes peeled on them supersize TVs! Yer gonna see some top-notch, professional, turbo-powered super Squatch-searchin’, tell you what!” He grabbed his lasso and swung it out at the crowd, snagged a sign, and pulled it back in, catching it with his other hand. It read: We ♥ Buck Wilde!

  The crowd cheered louder as Buck waved them kisses. “I heart you guys, too! Don’t go anywhere, now—I got a feelin’ tonight’s the night we catch that Squatch!” He waved one more time to the erupting crowd, then disappeared inside his RV.

  The crowd spread out and dispersed, allowing Abbie to pull her face away from the furry fanny in front of her. Jordan was already cutting through the crowd. “Those are our guys!” he said. “C’mon, we’ve got to get to them!”

  “Good,” Abbie said. “That guy’s costume smelled like wet dog and corn chips.”

  They followed as Andre and Guy made their way along the side of the crowd, heading back toward the path down to Harrison Lake, where Jordan and Abbie intercepted them. “Excuse me, Andre? Guy?” Jordan said.

  “No more free shirts,” Andre said in a French accent.

  “You’ll have to wait until tomorrow’s show, eh?” Guy added.

  “No, we’re interested in a couple of paddleboats,” Jordan said. “Hap sent us.”

  The brothers turned around. “You two know Hap?” Andre said.

  “Uh, yeah! I mean, oui!” Jordan said. “He said you could help us.”

  “Hap owes us money,” Guy said. “For zee Volksy bus we sold him, eh?”

  “We don’t know anything about that,” Abbie said. “So can you help us or not?”

  “You know where he is, non?” Andre said.

  Something told Jordan it would not be helpful to explain that Hap may be on the run for some time. “Tell you what,” he said. “You lend us the boats and if we see him, we’ll let him know you’re looking for him. Okay?”

  Andre eyed the two of them sternly. His brother whispered something in his ear. The two of them grinned. Then giggled. And not in a good way. “Okay,” Andre said. “You need paddleboats, eh? We’ve got just zee ones for you. . . .”

  Jordan and Abbie followed the brothers down to a dock. Out over the water, some people were paddling around in large, plastic swan-shaped boats.

  “Nope,” Abbie said. “Definitely not getting into a pretty white swan.”

  Guy reached down into some reeds and yanked a moldy old tarp with a flourish.

  “Voilà!” Andre said. Bobbing there in the reeds were a pair of banged-up, water-damaged, completely unsafe-looking paddleboats, both in the shape of the ugliest black geese Jordan or Abbie had ever seen. Their gray and black paint was chipped, both had
a layer of smelly slime on the floors, and one of their eyes was poked through, leaving a grotesque, gaping hole.

  “Eez good, no?” Guy said. “Only zee best for friends of our pal Hap.”

  “Ugh,” Jordan said as the two brothers laughed.

  Abbie grinned. “I can work with this,” she said. “Au revoir, dudes.”

  The two-person paddle-geese were perfect in one respect—Jordan and Abbie could each operate one, with room in each passenger seat for their gear. They loaded up quickly and were soon paddling past the tourists floating around the bay in their pretty white swans.

  A little farther up the lake they passed a small island. The map said this was Echo Island, and as they approached it, they spotted canoes beached along its shore. The Badger Rangers they’d seen in the airport were disembarking, setting up identical tents on the sand. A sign strung up in the small grove of trees in the center of the island announced that this was the site of the Forty-Seventh Annual International Badgeroobilee. They could see Ranger Master MacInerney giving orders, as well as various young Badger Rangers gathering driftwood, as others began constructing what Jordan assumed would become the official Bonding Bonfire Beach Badger. Abbie and Jordan ducked down low in their geese and kept paddling north.

  The coastline surrounding the lake became more remote and rugged the closer they got to the base of Mount Breakenridge. The waters of Harrison Lake wrapped around the mighty mountain, and as they approached, the sun was beginning to set behind the trees. Jordan and Abbie were having a hard time spotting a place they could make land and ditch their geese.

  Drifting there in the shadow of the mountain, Jordan studied the map that Hap had given them. It showed a small, strange outcropping of rocks along a patch of shoreline. There was an arrow pointing to them.

  “C’mon,” Abbie said. “The sun’s going down. It’s getting chilly out here. Let’s just park the geese and start climbing.”

  “I think we should consult the map,” Jordan said. “If you’d keep quiet a moment, I might be able to figure out which of these rocks it’s pointing to.”