The Waterfall Series, #2
A complement to my ‘Field Files’ series, these short stories explain what occurred along the river past the field that meanders near the woods. I can assure you that everything told within these pages is true and factual, based on my own recollection and knowledge of events. There are those, I know, who will be skeptical and will easily dismiss these tales as pure hokum and folderol, but rest assured, they happened. Before making your own hasty decision, I want to tell you about it. Here is my story.
Poised at the brink of the falls, I was mesmerized by the allure of water as it tumbled over the edge, as if beckoning me to follow its thundering journey downstream, into oblivion.
Andi, of course, was the first to smell something out of the ordinary.
“Andi! What is it?” He was staring past me, further along the river. He was perfectly still, wondering how to react to what he saw.
I whipped around and, nestled between a copse of birch, a Yeti sat hunched, staring at the same swirling water. He seemed sad.
I stepped off the edge and made my way toward the creature. I thought I’d have a chat with him. After all, how many opportunities does one have to talk to the abominable snowman?
I approached, thinking about an opening line.
“Say, not a bad day for February, is it?” Well, I didn’t know what to say! I mean, who does when confronting an enormous creature with thick white fur, looking dejected on the banks of a river far from his home.
He looked confused, lost, wondering where in hell he was.
“Um…you know you’re quite far from the Himalayas. In fact, you’re over 7,000 miles from Tibet.”
“Damn! Now what?” he uttered, his red-rimmed eyes peering at me through matted fur. “How am I going to get back?”
“Uh, well, listen,” I said. “I…I’m just trying take my dog for a walk. I had no idea I’d run into you.”
The Yeti just sat there, hopeless, slumped against a withered birch. He let out a giant-sized sigh.
“Hey, you know,” I offered, trying to cheer him up. “If you can hitch a ride east on the Pike and then to East Street in South Boston, you can probably catch a freighter at the Conley Terminal.” It was all I had on the spur.
The Yeti seemed to ponder my words, and a glint of excitement lit up his tear-stained, snotty face, his eyes suddenly wide with possibility.
He heaved himself skyward, towering over Andi and me and breathed in the mild winter air. (Andi had no idea what to do; he stood rigid, gazing up, astonished at this gigantic creature.)
The beast looked down at me and extended a shaggy, leathered black hand, rimmed with wet fur. I shook it and he simply said, “Thank you.” And then it crashed through the trees, in the general direction of Route 90.
“Shall we go home, Andi? Get you a snackie?”
Andi, still stunned, peered over my shoulder to where the Yeti had disappeared into the darkled woods. He didn’t know what to make of the encounter. Neither did I.
“Goodbye and good luck!” I said into the void, wishing my enormous white-furred clad friend safe travels.