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Brodie’s parents had always cautioned him about drinking too much sap. Many a neandhairal had gone astray after a night at The Tree Line, disappearing into the conifers to never be seen again, or, an even worse fate, seen on the covers of newspapers across the nation一if not world-wide. The story itself could be different, but each had the same phrase in its headline, translated across languages to mean the same thing.
“Big Foot,” his father said once, throwing a newspaper down on the table, the photo of a girl from two woods over captured by humans out for a hike when it wasn’t even in season. “It’s so speciest.”
The name Big Foot is a misnomer, really.
In comparison to other animals that roam the Earth一krakens, werewolves, and plesiosaurs一feet of a neandhairal are small一except if you were Jimmy VonPine, whose feet were at least 48 inches in length (some speculated it was because his dad was a monopod). It neglected the fact that the species is much more than just their foot size, known by their woodland neighbors for their diplomacy skills and development of clean energy practices decades before anyone else had.
That’s the thing, though, about humans: everything is from their myopic, self-centered perspective.
Brodie’s mother shook her head, stuck her ale mug beneath the dispenser, where the liquid gushed from the machine with the touch of a button. “Can you imagine what would happen if we called them big-headed, small-brained, genocidal maniacs?”
“You just did, Mom,” Brodie said.
“I didn’t put it in print, and I wouldn’t because it’s rude,” she snapped back, bringing the steaming ale to her lips, and tipped it back like it was a cool glass of spring water.
“Although it’s true,” his dad muttered.
Across from Brodie, his mom set down her ale, and wiped at her mouth, beads of the drink clinging to her fur.
“I swear to you, Brodie, if you ever, ever cause me the embarrassment of the ‘Big Foot,’ I will not hesitate to kick those haunches all the way to Timbuktu.”
“Okay, Mom. I promise I won’t,” he said, and laughed it off, like he did most things his parents warned him about such as the troll who lived under the bridge, who they suspected of dealing medicinal water weeds, but really was just into hydroponic gardening. The most dangerous thing he ever encountered was falling into a briar patch and being stuck there in something similar to what the humans called velcro. (To be honest, there was a brief moment where he was so attached to the prickly plants that he thought he may die there, but he was able to break free). Even then, he was fine. Always fine.
It’s that knowledge that gives Brodie the confidence to go down to The Tree Line with a couple of friends, tap a pine, and tip back a few saps as they watch pickup teams play baserock, slamming stones into the night sky with handcrafted bats. On the third or fourth sap, time begins to bleed together, along with the conversations and the edges of his vision. At some point一based on the position of the moon around 1:00 A.M.Brodie finds himself sitting alone on along the oak bar. He remembers his friends saying something about needing to work tomorrow一desk jobs crunching numbers of leaf turnover, and the distribution of mushroom caps一he didn’t realize it was their goodbye for the night or that they would leave him here.
Haunchholes.
Not feeling like being—or looking—like a loner, Brodie drags himself off his stump and outside to the usually busy roadway. Tonight, it’s deadsville. His mussed-haired shadow is one of the few signs of life.
Another realization clicks: There are no log cab-ins. He shakes his head, and swears at the sky. Of all the nights for the log cab-ins to have to call a strike. Of course, Brodie understands why. A log frame makes for great protection, is highly durable, and has zero-fuel emissions, but offers little comfort. The lawsuits, also known as the splinter suits, are absolutely horrendous, and he’s learned more about the neandhairal anatomy than he’s ever cared to. He sides with the cab-ins, but right now he wishes one could risk a spall of wood in the thigh to take him home.
Brodie’s only way home are his feet and the stone path in front of him.
Well, he could call his parents, but there is no way he’s going to do that. He’s drunk, not a masochist.
Under the light of the full moon and a few fireflies’ lanterns, Brodie lumbers off into the trees. In the distance, he can hear the titters and hollers of wood nymphs and the play-by-play of the Friday centaur brawl. He follows his usual path, taking the turn at the wishbone-shaped tree, and veering left at the crescent rock, but he struggles to stay on two feet. Is this the way he’s always walked, like he’s straddling two sides of a line? Like he’s got two boulders for feet, one heavier than the other?
Pebbles and tree roots dig into the bottom of his feet. Neandhairal feet are made to withstand the abuse of the forest floor, but it still hurts when a twig snaps right in the sole of your foot. This is one place he feels that humans may have the upper hand. Shoes, coverings that help keep the ground level and your feet protected from the outside annoyances. Shoes, one of the more genius inventions humans had ever thought up.
When the moon clock reads 3:00 A.M., though, and the mental fog has begun to clear, Brodie begins to think that maybe his trouble walking wasn’t all him. The walk should’ve taken him a half an hour一45 minutes at most, not 2 hours. With his sap goggles finally worn off, the path looks different, the trees thinner, the ground rougher and not bearing the markings of tilling by Neandhairal hands. Even the hymn of the nymphs sounds like a new tune.
Where in Neandhairal hell is he?
In school, teachers taught them what to do if they ever found themselves off the beaten path: Take a beat, make a circle to analyze your surroundings, check the soil and bark for any signs of home, listen for any recognizable sounds一or those of human life一and use your inborn navigational sense to guide you back. If you hit the road, run in the other direction. Humans hit wildlife all the time. You could easily be a casualty.
Beside a moss-covered rock, Brodie does as he’s been told. He breathes, and casts his eyes around him. It all looks the same, which means it’s all foreign soil to him.
Bending down, he presses his hand into the mud, first his palm, and then his hair-covered hand. Mostly dry with 20 percent moisture. He takes a lick of it: 22 percent moisture actually. At home, their soil is closer to 30 percent moisture. He’s wandered away from the river bed, not closer. No human noises bounce against his ear drum, no hum of a road. On one front, at least, he should be safe.
On every other one, well, that’s up for debate. Maybe he’s not fine this time.
After inspecting his surroundings, Brodie decides the best course of action is to go back in the direction he came in, checking the soil and tree lines with every step he takes. As dawn breaks, the path leads him into clearing, the rising sun casting shadows taller than him. Grass grows in patches, with a few dandelions poking through. He definitely doesn’t recognize this either, although he does admit, it is beautiful.
“Holy shit,” a voice yells behind him.
“Adam, shhhh,” another says.
“It’s a Big Foot, Delia! A Big Foot!”
Brodie’s hair stands on end.
These are the human noises he’s been told to avoid, to fear. His parents trained him to not make any sudden movements when meeting a creature he’s never encountered. This time, he does listen to them, and slowly turns his head, just enough to see a beanie and plaid-clad guy holding up a square metal glowing box that Brodie realizes is a phone from the stories on humans he’s read. Beside the man is a woman, her mitten-covered hands clamped over his mouth.
Brodie replays his parents’ words in his head, from reading the newspaper that morning. Her poor parents, they said. The embarrassment, they said. Now, it will be his family’s embarrassment. His furry face will cover magazines around the world. The name of his species will be reduced to one factoid again, and he’ll have himself to blame for it. There’s no laughing it off.
Brodie is the most vulnerable creature in this situation, but just as he is afraid of the humans, he knows they are of him, and that is one thing he can use to his advantage. From deep inside his throat, he produces a growl, lobbing it out across the clearing. A high-pitched squeal comes from the man, who breaks away from the woman and takes off running fast. The woman follows. Brodie is amazed at their speed, and he attributes it to only one source: they’re wearing damn shoes!
Brodie can’t channel their speed, but with the fear of more humans prowling the area, he moves more swiftly, more deftly than he has all night.
Maybe the sap has completely worn off, or maybe it’s the knowledge that one way or another, someone is going to kill him today, physically or emotionally. Either way, it propels him forward with a new sense of direction.
The sun has long replaced the moon in the sky by the time he makes it to his front door, and he knows who will take him out of this world. She opens the door, whipping back the bark wood by the recycled metal handle.
“Mom,” he breathes. He realizes he’s covered with mud, and his hair is matted on every part of his body from sweat. The pads of his feet are cut and stained with red. From behind him, he hears neighbors whispering his name. One shouts an obscenity.
“You promised me one thing!” his mom says, and without another word, drags him into their living room, and points at the satellite monitor they have built inside a tree trunk, cords and metal rods adhered to the inside. His dad sits in a chair across from it, his head hung.
On the monitor is an image broadcast from the local human news.
He doesn’t need to see it to know what it is, but he looks anyway. Despite the relative darkness of the picture, he can make out himself in it. He’s already hit the airwaves and it’s only a matter of time before they reach around the globe. Shitty humans, having to tell everyone what they see all the time. They’d never be able to hide their own existence.
“Local Adam Roberts reported seeing the Big Foot this morning when out camping with his girlfriend, Delia Drake, in the Delton Woods…”
“There it is,” Brodie’s dad mutters.
“Big Foot. Big Foot! My son is a Big Foot!” His mom exclaims, tossing her hand towards the screen. Her hair sticks up in clumps on the top of her head, making Brodie believe she may have literally been trying to pull her hair out.
“Am I going to Timbuktu?” Brodie asks.
She steps in front of him, cutting off his view of the monitor. In comparison to her expression, running into the humans was as scary as the troll beneath the bridge. “You bet you are.”
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