that has ridicule and bye-bye career written all over it.’
Matt knew he had his friend hooked the moment Charles started using the word ‘we’. He laughed and shook his head. ‘Not a chance – I’m way too good a driver. Hey, we’re just doing a little consulting for the local police force. Where’s the harm in that? And you’re probably right – it’s probably nothing more than some overdressed camper lost in the snow.’ Matt paused for dramatic effect. ‘But then again, it might not be. After all, the Native Americans have numerous legends that refer to the Big Man, the Hairy Man or the Big Brother of the Forest. The Cherokee, Dakota, Sioux, Algonquin and dozens of others had stories about the Chiye-tanka long before white men showed up. Even the word Sasquatch is from a near-extinct First Nation language called Halkomelem – it means hairy giant .’
The old man turned to look at Matt and Charles, then turned back to his empty plate. Matt noticed his rising voice was attracting attention so he sat forward to speak more conspiratorially.
‘You know, Charles, little people were just legends, or make-believe, until they discovered the hobbit in Indonesia.’
Charles was staring down at the table top, seemingly lost in thought. ‘ Homo floresiensis ,’ he said softly, ‘found in the Liang Bua cave on the Indonesian island of Flores in 2003. A magnificent find, and one that proves some legends are real.’ He looked up at Matt and narrowed his eyes. ‘You said consulting . . . they’d pay us as well?’
Matt just jiggled his eyebrows.
Charles’s mouth split open in a broad grin. ‘Okay, buddy, I’m in.’
*
The old man rose from his seat as soon as the two younger men left the cafe. His thick, slicked-down white hair and faded light blue chambray shirt seemed to glow under the neon lights as he stepped lightly to their table. The perfectly pressed shirt, fastened up to the neck, hung on a frame reduced to sinew and brown leather over the man’s nearly ninety years. He placed one brown, wrinkled hand on the napkin, turning it slightly to study the symbols the long-haired young man had drawn. He mouthed the Lakota word he had heard the man use, Chiye-tanka , then crushed the napkin and pushed it into his pocket.
He left the cafe and followed the two men along the dark street.
TEN
Kathleen Hunter stared into the fire, the flickering orange tongues reflecting in her eyes. The flames were warm and comforting, and as she watched they opened familiar windows into her past, into her memories. Beside her on the rug lay Jess, fully stretched out like an enormous bear-skin rug – one hundred pounds of German shepherd and her last living family member. Settling further into the old chair, Kathleen let her eyes wander over the angled line of photographs in their wood, silver or plastic frames on the mantelpiece. The first was of Jim Hunter, her husband, in his youth, all whipcord muscle. Beside him, looking even younger, was his best friend Jack Hammerson – soldiers both of them. The next frame held another young man, the face eerily similar to Jim’s but the photo was sharper and more modern. It was her son, Alex Hunter. An older version of Jack Hammerson was standing beside him, a hand on his shoulder. Another soldier sent out to serve and defend the nation. Another soldier who never came home , she thought morosely. Except for you, Jack, you could survive anything .
She looked down at the dog. ‘Never love a soldier, Jess – they break your heart even if they don’t mean to.’
The dog huffed in her sleep, her feet slowly circling as she chased something in a doggy dream. Kathleen wiped her eyes, cursing softly at the way the pictures could raise her with feelings of love and pride, then cast her down into melancholy and even a little anger.
She sighed and lifted the newspaper resting on her lap to fan her face. ‘Phew, someone needs a bath.’ She sniffed again. Odd smell . ‘Did you roll
Matt knew he had his friend hooked the moment Charles started using the word ‘we’. He laughed and shook his head. ‘Not a chance – I’m way too good a driver. Hey, we’re just doing a little consulting for the local police force. Where’s the harm in that? And you’re probably right – it’s probably nothing more than some overdressed camper lost in the snow.’ Matt paused for dramatic effect. ‘But then again, it might not be. After all, the Native Americans have numerous legends that refer to the Big Man, the Hairy Man or the Big Brother of the Forest. The Cherokee, Dakota, Sioux, Algonquin and dozens of others had stories about the Chiye-tanka long before white men showed up. Even the word Sasquatch is from a near-extinct First Nation language called Halkomelem – it means hairy giant .’
The old man turned to look at Matt and Charles, then turned back to his empty plate. Matt noticed his rising voice was attracting attention so he sat forward to speak more conspiratorially.
‘You know, Charles, little people were just legends, or make-believe, until they discovered the hobbit in Indonesia.’
Charles was staring down at the table top, seemingly lost in thought. ‘ Homo floresiensis ,’ he said softly, ‘found in the Liang Bua cave on the Indonesian island of Flores in 2003. A magnificent find, and one that proves some legends are real.’ He looked up at Matt and narrowed his eyes. ‘You said consulting . . . they’d pay us as well?’
Matt just jiggled his eyebrows.
Charles’s mouth split open in a broad grin. ‘Okay, buddy, I’m in.’
*
The old man rose from his seat as soon as the two younger men left the cafe. His thick, slicked-down white hair and faded light blue chambray shirt seemed to glow under the neon lights as he stepped lightly to their table. The perfectly pressed shirt, fastened up to the neck, hung on a frame reduced to sinew and brown leather over the man’s nearly ninety years. He placed one brown, wrinkled hand on the napkin, turning it slightly to study the symbols the long-haired young man had drawn. He mouthed the Lakota word he had heard the man use, Chiye-tanka , then crushed the napkin and pushed it into his pocket.
He left the cafe and followed the two men along the dark street.
TEN
Kathleen Hunter stared into the fire, the flickering orange tongues reflecting in her eyes. The flames were warm and comforting, and as she watched they opened familiar windows into her past, into her memories. Beside her on the rug lay Jess, fully stretched out like an enormous bear-skin rug – one hundred pounds of German shepherd and her last living family member. Settling further into the old chair, Kathleen let her eyes wander over the angled line of photographs in their wood, silver or plastic frames on the mantelpiece. The first was of Jim Hunter, her husband, in his youth, all whipcord muscle. Beside him, looking even younger, was his best friend Jack Hammerson – soldiers both of them. The next frame held another young man, the face eerily similar to Jim’s but the photo was sharper and more modern. It was her son, Alex Hunter. An older version of Jack Hammerson was standing beside him, a hand on his shoulder. Another soldier sent out to serve and defend the nation. Another soldier who never came home , she thought morosely. Except for you, Jack, you could survive anything .
She looked down at the dog. ‘Never love a soldier, Jess – they break your heart even if they don’t mean to.’
The dog huffed in her sleep, her feet slowly circling as she chased something in a doggy dream. Kathleen wiped her eyes, cursing softly at the way the pictures could raise her with feelings of love and pride, then cast her down into melancholy and even a little anger.
She sighed and lifted the newspaper resting on her lap to fan her face. ‘Phew, someone needs a bath.’ She sniffed again. Odd smell . ‘Did you roll
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