by Bergen, KC
“Sell myself? Do I look like a prostitute?”
“That’s not what I said.” Carol finished her glass. Eyebrows furrowed, she rose from the couch and grabbed her purse.
“I’m sorry,” Mary said. She didn’t want Carol to leave, so she poured her another glass of wine. “You’ve got a point. I know how to use the Internet professionally. Why shouldn’t it also work for me personally?”
“That’s the spirit!” Carol raised her glass. “To e-love.”
4
Novak hunkered down behind a bush. The chill crept up to the nape of his neck. He had his crook ready and he also took out his cellphone. If Franc was right about the existence of Bigfoot, Novak wanted to capture the creature on video. He peered into the swirling fog, trying to figure out who or what—if anything—was watching him. But due to the increasingly dense wisps of fog, he was unable to see more than a few yards.
My sheep!
Where were they? Too domesticated for their own good, the animals didn’t suspect any danger and were moving forward along the familiar trail as if everything was perfectly normal.
“Matilda,” Novak hissed. “Come here, sheep.”
Novak called again, but Matilda and the herd did not come to him. They’d gone too far into the fog. Novak tried to stay calm. “My sheep are not bleating. Everything is okay,” he whispered to himself. As he stepped away from his hiding place and back onto the trail, he thought he heard a muffled snicker from somewhere in the woods. Wishing he’d brought a gun, he gripped his crook and phone.
Then, a couple hundred yards farther into the woods, his sheep started bleating. Novak rushed toward the distressed sounds, observing what appeared to be a looming figure in the fog. A gust of wind split through the gray wisps, and Novak glimpsed Matilda galloping away from the figure, racing deeper into the forest. The rest of the herd mindlessly followed her off trail, and Novak knew all too well where they were headed: Deadman’s Drop.
The shadowy figure chased after Novak’s sheep.
“Hey!” Novak shouted, whacking a trunk with his crook. “Leave my sheep alone!”
The figure turned its head, and for a brief moment it looked like Chewbacca, the hairy creature from Star Wars.
Before Novak could get a closer look or record the event, the creature vanished into the fog. Novak lost sight of the creature and his herd and rushed after them. Twigs lashed at his face. A branch almost took his eye out. He stopped.
“Matilda,” Novak yelled. Distant bleating. No—more like terrified squeals. And then he thought he heard an even more distant splash. “Matilda! Come here, sheep!”
Novak pushed forward, using his crook to shield his face. He scraped his knuckles, arms, legs, but he didn’t care. He had to protect his herd. But where was it? The fog prevented him from seeing anything but a ghostly, pervading grayness.
A high-pitched, piercing bleat. His lamb, Lambert!
The bleating receded fast and was abruptly cut off. Another distant splash. Novak crept forward, fighting a bout of panic. Sweat dripped from his brow. No, it was blood. His knuckles and forearms were burning and bleeding too. And yet, on the inside, he felt cold as ice.
As Novak crept onto the rocky promontory, the silence was deafening. He couldn’t see the edge of the cliff, so he used his crook like a blind man with a stick. Feeling dizzy, he then crawled forward, keenly aware of the lethal drop ahead. He also feared that whatever had chased his herd was likely to turn on him next.
The fog lifted. Novak didn’t see Bigfoot or any other monster. However, he found the edge of the cliff. As he peered over it, he saw Lake Blava six hundred feet below. His sheep were dead. Gone. He knew it. They had fallen into the lake, and nothing could survive that drop. Novak surveyed the clearing along the promontory and the fringes of the forest. The creature was nowhere to be seen. A surge of anger and fear was quickly replaced with a profound grief.
Novak kneeled, took out his shepherd figurine, and folded his hands over it. He looked skyward then closed his eyes. “O Heavenly Shepherd, please look after my herd. They are good animals. Make sure that Matilda, Jane, Faith, Jackie, Hope, Roy, and Lambert have food to eat, water to drink, and plenty of space to roam. Rest in peace, my dear herd. And thanks for everything.”
Novak kissed the figurine. He wanted to stay there, gazing at the deep lake that had taken his livelihood, his loved ones. But with the creature lurking about, he decided to leave. Trudging through the woods, he felt like he’d lost a big part of himself. His herd was—had been—his family, each and every one of the sheep like a brother or a sister.
He fought the tears, the despair, the feelings of failure. It was his job to look after his herd. As a shepherd, that was literally his entire job description. He just hadn’t been prepared to fend off a monster. And the cursed fog hadn’t helped. He should have heeded Franc’s warning. Maybe the guy wasn’t as bad as Novak had suspected. But what was he supposed to do now? He’d have to wait for his sheep to float to the surface, if ever they would, before he could bury them.
He thought of his wife, Alenka. He needed to see her, to feel her arms around him. After a hard day’s work, seeing his house always put a smile on his face. He didn’t expect to smile today, but he also hadn’t expected to see a large herd milling about his yard. A mixed herd of sheep and alpine goats.
Had the Heavenly Shepherd provided him with a new herd? A closer look at a tagged ear revealed that the animals belonged to Franc. But why were they here?
Worried that Franc was harming his wife, Novak rushed to the front door and then crept inside. He heard creaking and thuds. Moaning. Uneasy, he continued up the stairs. As he’d feared, the noise emanated from the master bedroom. He pushed the door ajar. Franc’s cloak was covering the worst of it, but there was no doubt as to what he was doing to Novak’s wife.
Alenka’s eyes were closed, her arms embracing the hairy ogre on top of her. Then she spotted Novak, and Franc glanced over his shoulder.
“You’re home early,” said Franc. “Well, I’m almost done.”
Novak felt his heart sink. Oddly, he was unable to feel anger. Instead he was gripped with a sense of horrified grief.
A single word escaped his lips: “Why?”
“It’s pure math,” his wife said. “You have a tiny herd. Franc’s is big.”
“Yeah, baby. Everything about me is huge.”
Novak didn’t know what to do. Start swinging? Take out his knife and really go to town on the both of them? And then go to jail for the rest of his life? First his herd was taken from him, now his wife. He did not want to lose his freedom. But even the house belonged to her. Novak felt dizzy, sick to his stomach. He couldn’t hold it in.
Novak hurled. Projectile-vomited his entire breakfast over Franc and Alenka. It seemed like some sort of gross justice. Having nothing left to hurl or herd and trying not to fall apart, he left the bedroom. Ran out the front door. Hardly able to see through the tears, he stumbled over a grazing sheep. In Novak’s ears, the sheep’s bleating sounded like mocking laughter, and the animals appeared as gray clouds encroaching on the fallen shepherd.
5
Mary returned home from work. It had been a long day and she was famished. She checked the fridge, but nothing in there caught her interest. So she picked up the phone and called Harakiri Takeaway. Ordered a delivery of chicken broccoli. As she hung up the phone, the front door slammed shut.
Michael bopped toward the kitchen, pulling at his saggy pants. “What’s up, sugar tits? What’s for dinner?”
“What did you just call me?”
Michael turned his cap around, brim forward. “Come on, baby doll. You know I’m playin’.”
“Watch your language, Michael. There are no sugar tits or baby dolls around here.”
“Yeah, whatever. Hey, I’m hungry and pops is picking me up in a couple of bitch slaps.”
“You mean a couple of minutes.”
“Why you gotta hate on a playa?”
Smili
ng, Mary squeezed Michael’s cheeks. “I don’t hate you. I love you, player.”
Michael pulled at the brim to hide his blushing cheeks, but the brim wasn’t big enough. “All right, Mom. Love you too.”
“Listen Michael, your father is obviously having a negative influence on you. The language, the clothes.”
“What are you talking about? I’ve got my own style, and the language is mine too.”
“No, it’s not. And you also listen to those Gangnam-style rappers.”
“It’s called gangsta rap.”
“Whatever. It’s about your attitude as well. Although you may aspire to look like a rapper, your behavior is very much like your father’s. By the way, have you taken down those pornographic posters in your room?”
“It's not porn, Mom. We’re talking glamour models; top-to-toe glam clams. And you know I gotta represent, cause I gots to get paid.”
“You're twelve years old, Michael, and I give you an ample weekly allowance. So you don’t need to get paid. And I'm not letting you anywhere near that porn parlor your dad runs.”
“It's not porn, it's glamorous entertainment!” Michael raised his hand. “Slap me some skin if you is a true playa.”
Mary rolled her eyes and walked into the living room.
Michael put on his headphones and cranked up the volume. He sang along with the rap artist: “Uh, yeah … These bitches ain't for real. Don't got no sex appeal. But as long as they get laid, this playboy here gets paid, yeah! Pimpin’ bitches is my game … Yeah, you know my name! Uh!”
Furious, Mary stomped back into the kitchen and snatched Michael's headphones off. “Stop that … that goddamn shit! What’s wrong with you?!”
His mom’s unusually harsh outburst jolted Michael out of his bad-boy character. “I’m going to be famous, Mom. Can’t you cut whitey some slack?”
“Your name is Michael, not Whitey!”
“But—”
“And the only thing you're going to be is grounded, unless you stop that nonsense right now. Now go to your room and take down those nasty posters!”
Michael plodded toward his room. Meanwhile, the doorbell rang.
“Ah, it must be the chicken,” Mary said to herself, approaching the front door. She glanced through the peephole and her shoulders dropped. Her ex-husband, Brian, was standing outside, running a hand across his slicked-back hair and ponytail.
“Great,” she muttered. “Michael! Your dad is here.” She opened the door and told Brian, “Stay.”
“I'd play dead too, baby doll, if my heart wasn't beating so fast. You look beautiful.”
“Isn't that what you tell all your skanks?”
“Come on, girl, you know I only loved you.”
“You're boring me. Go play with your whores.”
“They're not whores, okay. How many times do I have to tell ya? They're glamour models!
Mary turned her head and shouted, “Michael! Time to go!” She gave Brian a cold stare. “You need to stop feeding your son these lies. And don’t encourage this bad-boy persona. He's very impressionable.”
“What are you talking about? He's becoming a man.” When Michael appeared in the doorway, Brian held up his hand. “Slap me some skin if you is a true playa!”
Michael high-fived his dad. As they headed toward Brian's old Beemer in the driveway, a deliveryman from Harakiri Takeaway pulled up on his scooter.
“Hey, just what the doctor ordered,” Brian said. “Chicka-chicka, wow-wooow—chicken!” He grabbed the bag of food and slipped the man a twenty-dollar bill. “Keep the change.”
“Oh, thank you,” the deliveryman said. “Almost a one dollar tip. Finally I can retire.”
“You’re welcome, Chinaman.” Brian handed the food to his son. “Let's go, playa. We got a sweet day ahead of us!”
At the door, Mary was about to explode. But she didn’t want to lose her cool in front of her son, so she went inside, grabbed a handful or mixed nuts, and then called another takeaway restaurant. She looked forward to her relaxing evening yoga class with Carol.
6
Novak had no one to turn to but his grandfather, Oleg. But Novak hadn’t spoken with the old shaman in a long time. Not since his divorce. Novak felt a pang of guilt. Oleg had suffered a similar fate as himself, and now Novak needed the helping hand that he’d never even considered extending to his grandfather. As far as Novak could recall, his grandfather led a reclusive lifestyle up in the mountains. Although Novak had met a shepherd a few months ago who’d encountered the old shaman. According to him, Oleg had been in the company of several beautiful women. Novak hadn’t believed the story, but then again, the Bigfoot tale had come true.
Novak briskly walked alongside the river. For a while he enjoyed the solitude and the silence of the lush forest. He remembered how Oleg had taught him a sequence of yoga poses many years ago. To this day, when Novak felt tense or cold, he would perform a few select poses. The least complicated ones. Maybe yoga would do him some good, as his mind stirred up disturbing images of his dead herd and cheating wife. And that bastard Franc.
Feeling faint and queasy, Novak knelt down at the river’s edge. He splashed water in his face and drank some. His reflection in the river’s surface appeared broken. So distant. Gray-haired and old. What? He didn’t even recognize himself!
“What is wrong?” a deep voice said from above.
Novak nearly had a stroke. He looked up to see an old man sitting on a branch high up in an oak tree. Oleg! Novak sighed with relief as he realized it was his grandfather’s reflection in the river. “You almost gave me a heart attack. What are you doing up there?”
Oleg appeared to be twerking or grinding against the branch. “Ah, that is itchy spot.” He sighed with relief. “Yes … I look good for age, no?”
Novak looked up, shielding his eyes from the sun. He debated whether to comment on his grandfather’s thick accent or the way he looked as he scratched his privates.
Oleg stopped grinding and peered down at Novak. “You look like shits. Lady trouble?”
“How did you know?”
Balancing perfectly on the branch, Oleg gazed across the river. “Man who stay in whorehouse get jerked around.”
Oleg had warned Novak against Alenka. Just before the wedding ceremony he’d said that she had a reputation. Well, he’d called it a wandering vagina. Novak became so upset that he hadn’t talked to him since. And now Oleg had been proven right.
The old man swung from the branch, dismounted, caught the next branch, and then the next, before he spun around it and let go. He stuck the landing like a seasoned gymnast.
Adjusting his grayish man bun, Oleg scanned the surroundings. Then he looked at Novak. “Hmmm. Where is sheep?”
Novak averted his eyes. He felt like a fool, but didn’t want to lie about what had happened. “They’re gone. Fell over the edge of a cliff.”
Oleg nodded gravely. “That happen to your father too. He was chasing butterfly.” The old man swatted a bug. “Or maybe it was chasing him.”
Novak didn’t want to dwell on his past. “So how have you been?”
“Great. Lots of exercise, good food, and poking.”
“Excuse me?”
“Good food.”
“No, the last bit?”
Oleg spread his legs and leaned forward while stretching his arms above his head. Novak presumed it was one of his grandfather’s yoga poses. “People do not want shaman services anymore, so I start new business.”
Novak waited for more information but it wasn’t provided. “Well, I’m glad business is good?”
“Me too.” Oleg slowly returned to a normal standing position. “Come, Novak Novak. You must be hungry.”
“You don’t have to say my name twice.”
“But it is your full name. Your father give it to you. He was simple man, like your name.”
“I like my first and last name.”
“Yes, it is easy to remember!”
Novak followed h
is whistling grandpa along the trail as it wound away from the river, through dense forest, and up a verdant hill. As far as Novak recalled, though, this was not the way to his grandfather’s abode.
“Where are we going?” Novak asked.
“I move.”
“When?”
“Last year.”
“Why didn’t you …” Novak bit his tongue.
“I don’t hear from you in three years,” Oleg said.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. In life, shits happen. But also good things happen. Remember when you were little boy, I used to take you to mountains?”
“Those were the days,” Novak said, reminiscing about how his grandfather had taught him how to meditate and stretch his mind and body. And he’d also taken young Novak to the movie theater in Kamnik.
As Oleg and Novak scaled the hill, they came upon a mansion overlooking the valley. Novak turned and took it all in: the town of Kamnik a couple miles away and far below, shimmering Lake Blava with its somber secrets to the east, and the distant mountain range framing the stunning view.
“This is new home,” Oleg said.
Novak spun around and he could hardly believe it—the former ascetic shaman, now living in a Romanesque villa? He laid eyes on stylish stucco walls, majestic stone statues, and a large infinity pool. Business must be outstanding, Novak thought as he was escorted inside. Floors of the finest marble. High, vaulted ceilings. Lavish oil paintings on the walls. Novak recognized his grandfather in some of the paintings; dressed like a king in one, surrounded by gorgeous women in another.
“Wow,” Novak said. “This place is spectacular.”
“Yes, it is like me.”
Oleg led the way to the kitchen. An Asian woman and a brunette dwarf were preparing a curry dish, by the smell of it, and they wore nothing but skimpy aprons that barely covered their breasts and upper thighs. Novak had never seen a smaller apron than the one the dwarf was wearing. Trying not to stare, he peered out the kitchen window.
Oleg addressed the girls: “How long is it?”
