by Steve Vernon
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“He’s my friend,” I said, just a little bit too defensively. “I wouldn’t exactly call him my dog. He just walks with me, is all.”
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“Well you ought to teach your friend better manners,” Dad said. “In fact, I don’t think that I really care all that much at all for your dog-friend’s company.”
I put my hand on Old Shuck’s neck, just hard enough to hold him back just a little – although of course, if that big old purple Death Dog had REALLY wanted to move I couldn’t hold him back any more than a twelve year old Girl Scout could hold back a freshly-cut full-sized redwood tree from timbering on down.
Come to think of it the Girl Scout would probably stand a better chance.
“Go on, Shuck,” I told him. “Go on over there with Coyote. I’ll be all right over here by himself. I’m just talking to my Dad, is all.”
Wasn’t I?
Old Shuck growled a little bit more but he listened to what I had told him. He walked slowly over to stand directly beside Coyote – who was still standing there with that goofy look on his face and those two goofy Raven feathers sticking out of his mouth like he had been caught eating an unplucked chicken dinner.
And all the time Old Shuck kept on growling at Dad-not-Dad.
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I stood there beside my Dad.
Not-Dad.
Did you ever hear that little voice that whispers to you sometimes whenever you are getting set to do something that you REALLY ought not to do?
Well, that was the voice.
“Dad,” I said – trying hard to drown that quiet little voice out. “It is SO good to see you.”
Oddly enough, I almost meant what I was saying – in spite of that little voice that kept on whispering not-dad to me. I mean – I had already pretty well lost Warren and Bigfoot and The Prophet. Who could really blame me for not wanting to lose anyone else?
“A dog like that REALLY ought to be tied up,” Dad-not-Dad said. “You do know that, now don’t you?”
Then Dad-not-Dad looked at me and he smiled like he was thinking about a bottle of cold grape soda pop that he had left in the refrigerator back home just waiting for after he had got done walking home from Afghanistan on a long hot summer day.
“Speaking of tying,” Dad-not-Dad said – right before he reached over and tied two black raven feathers in my hair. He did it fast – like he had been tying feathers into people’s hair for about as long as birds grew wings. He braided each of those feathers up in about as much time as it took you to read this sentence.
It was that fast.
And all at once I felt a deep calm wash over me – like when your Mom tucks a blanket up around your chin and tells you that it is time for you to go to sleep and dream about a world where teachers hand you out A-filled report cards just because you stayed at home all day watching cartoons on your television set.
“That’s fine,” I said.
“Fine,” Coyote echoed.
And then Dad-not-Dad looked back at Old Shuck – who was still growling in Dad-not-Dad’s general direction.
“Yes sir,” Dad-not-Dad said. “A dog like that just REALLY ought to be tied up.”
Then he nodded and before I knew it a couple of dozen of those tiny Mannegishi had begun to circle around Old Shuck, carrying lassoes.
“That’s fine,” I said.
“Just fine,” Coyote echoed.
It was funny.
A part of me was wondering just WHY my Dad-not-Dad was so darned determined to tie up Old Shuck – but heck – maybe he just didn’t like dogs, is all. Which was really kind of surprising. I mean, that was something that I never knew about my Dad-not-Dad but there is an awful lot of things that a kid like me doesn’t know about a Dad who went and died and came back from the dead just like my Dad just did.
Not-Dad.
Of course, trying to throw a rope around Old Shuck was an awful lot of wasted energy. Even I could have told them if they had thought to ask me about it. The first three lassoes fell directly onto Old Shuck’s neck and he took off like a dream of running wind with those three Mannegishi warriors just hanging on for pure sweet life. Two of the Mannegishi thought to let go but the third warrior must have had his hand snagged or else he was just too scare or too stupid to let go. Either way, Old Shuck took off into the Labrador wilderness like he was fixing to run half past forever – with that third stupid warrior bouncing behind him in the dirt like a drunken lead-plated kite’s tail.
Darn it.
That was most likely the very last that I was going to see of Old Shuck – which bothered me a lot because I had actually begun to LIKE that big smelly purple old death dog – but then I felt that deep black calm wash over me.
Who cares – I thought.
Who cares about an old purple dog just so long as I have got my Dad with me again.
Not-Dad.
Dad.
Not-Dad.
Dad.
“Good riddance,” Dad-not-Dad said. “I hope that mangy animal keeps on running until he hits the ocean and drowns.”
“That’s fine,” I said – wondering to myself just exactly why had it taken me so very long to discover just how truly fine the word “fine” felt like when you kept on saying it.
I mean, just try saying it, right now.
Fine.
You just can’t help but smile when you say that word out loud.
Fine.
“Just fine,” Coyote echoed.
“You still talk too much,” Dad-not-Dad said to Coyote. “But I can fix that.”
Then Dad walked over to where Coyote was standing. I saw him pull a long thin bone needle out from shirt, as well as a spool of dirty white cord. Then, before you could say Singer sewing machine my Dad stitched a long nasty running stitch across Coyote’s mouth.
“Now that’s fine,” Dad-not-Dad said, with a grin that wasn’t anywhere close to a happy grin.
“Jph fhn,” Coyote mumbled through the stitches in reply.
And then my Dad looked over at Bigfoot.
I didn’t actually like the way that Dad-not-Dad was looking at Bigfoot but the feathers kept on telling me never you mind.
“All right,” Dad-not-Dad said to the crowd of Mannegishi, pointing down at what was left of Bigfoot. “Take care of him!”
The Mannegishi raised their long sharp spears high over their heads.
They paused for just a minute, like they were waiting for some kind of an alarm to go off or else maybe some sort of cosmic omen.
I knew what they were going to do.
You would have to be ten kinds of stupid not to see it coming.
But I just stood there and smiled calmly – and then they drove those long sharp spears down – directly into what was left of Bigfoot’s big hairy chest.
“That’s fine,” I said.
Chapter Thirty One – Taking Care of Bigfoot
The Mannegishi raised their spears up, pulling them up forcibly out from what was left of Bigfoot.
I could see the dark red chili-con-carne Bigfoot blood dripping down from off of the ends of all of those long sharp nasty-looking spears. I could feel a part of myself screaming way down deep inside of the sub-sub-sub-basement of my being – but at the very same time I felt a flat cellophane smile plaster itself over my mouth as the Mannegishi drove their spears a second time down into Bigfoot’s chest.
Again and again and again.
“That’s just fine,” I said – still smiling as calm as a saucer of warm milk on the outside of me but deep down inside I was screaming just as loudly as I could imagine.
Not Dad.
Dad-not-Dad walked over to Bigfoot’s body.
He was grinning while he was walking.
It wasn’t a very nice grin at all.
“You thought you were too big for me, didn’t you?” Dad-not-Dad said.
Then Da
d-not-Dad sat down in the dirt behind Bigfoot’s fallen body.
“You thought that you were such big shot with all of your newspaper stories and television shows, didn’t you?” Dad-not-Dad went on. “You always thought that you were the only story that was going to never ever die.”
I stood there and watched calmly as Dad-not-Dad planted both of his feet squarely upon Bigfoot’s shoulder blades.
For a moment I thought of the way that Bigfoot had planted both of his big hairy feet before he had pulled me back into The Prophet when we were falling out of the sky – maybe ten minutes and a hundred million years ago.
I kept on watching as Dad-not-Dad carefully wrapped his hands beneath Bigfoot’s big hairy chin and ears.
“You thought you were better than any of us.”
I watched as Dad-not-Dad dug his fingers as deeply as he could into Bigfoot’s neck. I watched as he grunted and strained -, the muscles in his back flexing like a pair of huge wings – until he yanked Bigfoot’s head off of his shoulders like some spoiled little kid might yank the head of an unsuspecting action figure.
It should not have happened.
There wasn’t any way on earth that it could be physically done.
Not even in a comic book.
Dad-not-Dad held the big hairy freshly-decapitated head up and took a long cold look at all that was left of my friendly Sasquatch.
“I bet that is a real weight from off of your shoulders,” Dad-not-Dad said. “I bet that is a really GREAT cure for a headache.”
And then Dad-not-Dad grinned.
It was a terrible joke and a horrifying grin and a part of me was screaming louder than any scream in history had ever been screamed before.
Dad-not-Dad dropped Bigfoot’s head in the dirt.
“Sing up the Cave of Tears and put them down in it,” Dad-not-Dad broken-glassed in Mannegishi. “I am done with the both of them.”
Then he grabbed hold of the pine-needle Warren-cocoon.
“I have got what I came for,” Dad-not-Dad said.
And then he walked away dragging the Warren-cocoon behind him in the dirt like some sort of a funky pine-needle and dead leaf security blanket.
“Fine,” I said. “Just fine.”
Chapter Thirty Two – Singing Up The Cave of Tears
The Mannegishi sang to the hill that we stood beside.
It wasn’t a pretty song.
It sounded a lot like their language but only worse. A whole lot worse. It sounded like a murder of angry crows cursing at broken glass in the middle of a cymbal solo on top of the rustiest tin roof in the universe.
Loud, nasty and cracked in two where the pieces ought to fit.
I could see a raven’s head forming in the mountain. I could see the big old black feathered cowl and the big old jowl in the throat and I could see a pair of cold eyes like flat black river stones. At first it looked as if the head was made out of mountain and trees and shadow but then as the Mannegishi continued their long and ugly singing it began to look as if the mountain was made out of raven.
The sunlight streaming down over my shoulder should have felt warm and comforting but I shivered just the same.
The beak of the raven in the mountain opened like a welcoming doorway and I could see a cave hiding inside of the gaping beak.
Several of the Mannegishi escorted Coyote into the cave. Coyote didn’t seem to want to fight them. I guess those raven feathers he was chewing on had somehow taken all of the fight out of him – even after he had his mouth stitched shut with a bone needle.
Another couple of Mannegishi carried Bigfoot’s head into the cave.
Then they came for me.
“Fine,” I said. “Just fine.”
Only it wasn’t fine.
I felt like I was caught in one of those crazy nasty dreams that you sometimes have. You know that kind of dream where you can’t stop yourself from doing something no matter how stupid or bad or dangerous that something really was.
I should have run – but I just walked along, hanging onto one of the Mannegishi’s extended hand like I was three years old and hanging onto my Mom’s hand while she walked me safely across a busy intersection.
I wondered to myself what was going to happen in the cave.
Was the cave going to chew us up and eat us?
I supposed it might have. The cave kind of looked like a big old wide-open mouth, all hungry and ready chew, and after seeing lake dragons and giant islands and a birch tree Spirit Bear I was just about ready to believe that anything was possible.
I walked inside.
I wondered to myself what the Raven really wanted with Warren’s cocoon.
It wasn’t like the Warren cocoon was all that pretty to look at.
I supposed he could have used the Warren cocoon as a throw cushion or maybe to stop up a leak in a plaster wall.
I wondered to myself if Old Shuck had got away from the pursuing Mannegishi hunters.
I hoped that he had.
I wondered all of these things while I walked into the Cave of Tears but mostly I just wondered if I was ever going to walk out of this cave alive again.
And then the Mannegishi sang their ugly song one more time and the cave closed its mouth leaving me and a sewed-up Coyote and Bigfoot’s decapitated head huddled alone together in the darkness of the Cave of Tears.
It wasn’t exactly a comfortable sort of situation.
I would like to tell you that I was brave and courageous about the whole thing – but a fellow’s last words on earth probably ought not to be a lie.
Chapter Thirty Three – This is One Of Those Kinds Of Stories
Did you ever hear a story that you told yourself you would never forget?
Did you ever swear that you were going to remember something only you didn’t?
Did you ever set out to commit every single detail of something you had heard into the lockbox of your memory – only to find out that your lockbox had rusted shut a long time ago and you had already lost the key to the lockbox an d besides – your mother had already thrown that lockbox last Saturday in a fit of sudden Spring cleaning.
That was how my whole life suddenly seemed.
Everything that I thought I knew about my Dad had somehow turned into a full-blown lie.
He wasn’t a hero.
He hadn’t died in Afghanistan.
He didn’t even like dogs.
Besides all of that, he had clearly demonstrated a very bad habit of pulling heads off of dropkicked and speared-to-death Sasquatches.
I closed my eyes and did my very best to push past all of the stories that I had told myself about my Dad.
It was hard.
It was a little like fighting fog.
I had been telling myself those stories for so many years they were all I really had to believe in, but maybe they were nothing more than lies I had been telling myself.
What did I really remember about my Dad?
Not that much, come to think of it.
Dad was always somewhere else.
I looked down at that Bigfoot head that was still lying in the dirt beside me just exactly where Dad’s pet Mannegishi had dragged and dropped it.
I was chained to the side of the cage that Coyote was locked inside. I don’t really know where the Mannegishi had found a cage like that out here in the wilderness. Maybe they had made it out of magic. Maybe they had found it in a jailhouse yard sale.
I don’t know.
I tried not to stare at Bigfoot’s head.
The flies were buzzing around that rotting head-meat like they were telling themselves long bedtime stories about fat and grease and garbage and decaying Sasquatch heads.
I’m not saying that it was pretty.
The daylight slipped away like sand running out of a broken hourglass. Darkness tucked in over the land and I closed my eyes and thought about sleep.
“No,” a voice said. “Don’t look
away.”
It was Warren’s voice.
“Don’t you EVER dare look away again,” Warren’s voice said. “You keep your eyes wide open and you will live to tell.”
I looked down in the direction that the voice was coming from.
I knew what I was going to see before I even saw it.
It was Bigfoot who was talking but it was my Stepdad Warren’s voice that was coming from out of Bigfoot’s talking mouth. Worse yet, I could see Warren’s beady little eyes staring out from Bigfoot’s big shaggy eyeholes.
“Whatever happens,” Bigfoot/Warren went on. “Don’t you ever dare to look away again, not even for a minute. Remember, life is like a movie with no reruns ever. You don’t want to blink. You don’t want to miss a single shining moment of it.”
“I’m not blinking,” I said sincerely. “My eyes are stuck wide open.”
It was fear that was keeping my eyes open – but I guess that was good enough for Bigfoot/Warren.
“Good,” Bigfoot/Warren said. “Keep them that way.”
“So are you really actually dead?” I asked. “That would definitely be an important thing for me to know in this particular situation.”
“Well that’s a whole other story,” Bigfoot/Warren replied. “But I think that by now you really ought to know that stories never die so long as people remember to tell them.”
“That’s still not an answer,” I said.
“You’re looking at me,” Bigfoot/Warren said. “And I am talking to you. Is there really anything else that you need to know?”
I blinked my eyes.
I guess I shouldn’t have blinked because all of a sudden I was just looking at a dead severed Sasquatch head.
I guess I shouldn’t have blinked.
“Is there anything else you need to know?” a voice from behind me asked.
I looked around, startled.
It was Coyote who was talking to me.
“What happened to that thread that was sticking your mouth together?” I asked. “And what about those raven feathers that were keeping you all cheerful and dumb?”
“Those raven feathers weren’t really keeping me cheerful and dumb on account of they were nothing more than a couple of crow feathers I grabbed out of a passing murder of crows,” Coyote explained. “Besides that, you ought to have figured out by now that I am dumb by nature and I absolutely HATE cheerful with a passion.”
