Hours later, when the car was nearly out of gas, I found a pull-off by a steep cliffside, tossed the motorcycles off the cliff, and pushed the empty vehicle over, where it tumbled off into the darkness. Even if the wreckage was eventually found, no one would ever know the answers.
Still feeling no pain from where I’d been shot, no weariness despite the labors of the night, I trudged up into the empty high valleys and isolated crags. I didn’t care about the cold glaciers or windswept basins. I just needed to find a place where I would be alone … where I belonged.
RATTLER AND THE MOTHMAN
by Sharyn McCrumb
I’M NOT GOING TO SAY that he didn’t look dangerous, because he did.
Now, I don’t hold with talking to dead people, though it seems I have to do it often enough. And worse, besides.
You’d think that holing up out in the woods like I do, living on Dr Pepper and Twinkies, would give me more peace and quiet than John ever saw. (That there’s a biblical reference, which slides right past most people nowadays. There’s a lot wrong with life in the twenty-first century, which is why I took to the woods in the first place, but in a world where the Dalai Lama is on Twitter, I don’t reckon there’s much hope for any of us Shamen—New People’s word—to get let alone.)
My favorite neighbors are the ones that fly south for the winter, or else hibernate in a cave until spring. They’re never a bit of trouble, but unfortunately in the warmer months, the woods tend to fill up with varmints. There’s some idiot a ways down the road who fancies himself an independent filmmaker, which means he has no money and can’t spell. Anyhow, he’s been going around trying to recruit the locals to work for free in his magnum opus, Haints in Hillbilly Holler. Said I’d be a natural. I told him I’d rather be dragged backward through a briar patch, which he took to mean “Maybe.” He is from Florida, and doesn’t speak the local dialect very well. From what he said about his movie, I can see that he plans to trot out every old stereotype in the book and make everybody in these mountains look like ignorant savages, just to juice up his cheesy horror flick. He ought to play the monster himself. Typecasting.
And I’m always getting tomfool backpackers traipsing out here, asking me for something to cure what ails them, which is mostly boredom and too much civilization, from what I can tell.
If they’re polite fellers, and in genuine distress, I give them sweet tea with sassafras; and if they’re arrogant turistas who sneer at my shack and snicker at my accent when they think I’m not noticing—why, I give them a dose of laxative, whether they need one or not. They’re just irritating, but when you’ve had to listen to lectures on string theory from a Cherokee ravenmocker, and stand under cold iron to get rid of the night riders, why, you get a little short on patience with the common and garden variety of idiot: the kind that wear Sierra Club sweatshirts and use poison ivy leaves for toilet paper.
Things do tend to simmer down a bit of an evening. I reckon those suburban hikers are afraid they can’t see the snakes underfoot in the twilight, so they go off to wherever it is that L.L.Bean-wearing, cell-phone-toting, vegan-and-mineral-water pioneers go when it’s time to turn in.
That’s when I drag an old wooden kitchen chair out into the yard, take out a jug that ain’t tea and sassafras, and start counting the stars. There’s a deal more of them out here than there are in city skies, and usually I have the rest of the evening to sit back and commune with them all by my lonesome. But on that particular night, before it got dark enough for the stars, and I was just watching the bats overhead, circling the treetops and chasing bugs, I saw something up there, hanging in the dark sky, in the distance between the ridge and the mountaintop. At first I thought it was one of them bats, until I calculated in my head how far away it had to be, and that told me that the thing was closer in size to a hang glider than it was to a bat—except that it wasn’t a hang glider, either, because its wings were moving.
I turned that straight chair around so that I could keep an eye on that flying thing until I could figure out what it was I was seeing. My money, if I had any, would have been on the merry pranksters from the nearest air force base, because the filmmaker couldn’t even afford a paper airplane. The word around here is that the pilots like to fly their newest experimental aircraft low along the ridges to scare the bejesus out of any locals who happen to be watching. I was wrong about that, though.
Just for the heck of it, I reached around for my lantern, lit it, and waved it slowly, side to side while I faced that flying thing. I hoped it would come close enough to give me a better look at it. Sure enough, after a second or two, it noticed my signal, because it seemed to wobble for a moment in midair, and then it commenced to fly straight for me. I set down the lantern and waited for my visitor to arrive.
It didn’t take long. First it circled the treetops around my cabin, same as the bats were doing, only instead of eating bugs, it was checking me out, maybe looking to see if I was armed with more than a lantern.
I wasn’t.
Most of the dangerous things that hunt me up in these woods wouldn’t even slow down for a firearm, and the ones that would—the bears and the bobcats—generally don’t want trouble any more than I do, so we maintain a judicious neutrality. I’m generally polite to the others—the Cherokee gods and such—though I can’t say that I care overmuch for their company.
The thing was coming closer. It looked like a big shadow, blotting out the night sky, and then it swooped down below the treetops, and when I got a better look, I was staring into a pair of red eyes that looked like the running lights on an airplane—except they blinked a time or two. They sat there in a shadowy face that I would have paid more attention to if I hadn’t been sidetracked by the fifteen-foot leathery wings stretching out behind him and flapping slowly as he set himself down in the grass a few feet away from my chair.
In the faint glow of the lantern light, I could see him more clearly now. He was roughly human shaped, standing upright on long legs that ended in bird claws. Those red eyes flashed and glowed, seeming to take in everything around him. They were set far apart, on the outer edges of a round face with a sharp beak of a nose and a lipless mouth that made me think of a cave entrance: just a way into darkness. I was wondering if he had teeth, and not particularly eager to find out.
The whole cast of his countenance would cause you to think “insect,” by way of classification, except that his expression and bearing said that there was somebody home. He was a lot smarter than a housefly. You could tell.
His body was covered with a fine fluff, (gray or blue—I couldn’t tell in the dim light)—that might have been fur or the sort of downy feathers you see on baby birds. I could have reached out and stroked him to find out which it was, if I’d wanted to.
But I didn’t want to.
Still keeping those burning eyes trained on me, he folded his wings up against his back, and lowered himself ceremoniously onto a sycamore log that I keep moss-free and weeded, in case I get company. While I had been watching him draw a bead on me, swoop down, and make himself comfortable on the log, my mind had been flipping through possibilities. The Cherokee in these parts told tales of a giant fire-breathing wasp named Ulagu that burned all the trees off Roan Mountain, so that they never grew back. The summit of that mountain is treeless to this day, with nothing bigger than rhododendron bushes growing there. Nobody knows why. Scientists call such bare mountains “balds,” but that’s a classification, not an explanation, so I guess a giant wasp is as good an answer as any. I didn’t think this was him, though. Those old stories made the wasp out to be a lot bigger than my seven-foot visitor here, and not much to speak of in the brains department, so I had ruled out Ulagu. That only left one possible candidate, and, as unlikely as it was for him to drop by, I figured he had.
“Good evening,” I said, giving the creature a cordial nod, while I sized him up some more, trying to think of something polite to say to someone maybe seven feet tall, and covered with duck down.
/> He inclined his head in my direction, and I took that for a gesture of greeting. The silence stretched on some more, so finally I said, “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
It was hard to tell anything about his emotions from that Halloween mask face of his, but I swear I think he looked pleased when I said that. He got up and let out a little shriek, sort of an owl-noise, and stomped one of those big chicken feet of his in the dust. Then he stretched out those leathery fifteen-foot wings to their full length in order to impress me even more, so I added, “Nope. I certainly did not expect to see you here. You being from West Virginia and all.”
Well, that stuck in his craw. He blinked in mid-preening and looked down at me, and then his wings started folding back of their own accord. You could tell that he’d have been a lot happier if I’d gibbered and cowered at the sight of him, but there’s been worse things in my yard than him, and I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of thinking he had impressed me.
“I would greet you by name to be neighborly, but I don’t think they went so far as to give you an official name up there in West Virginia, did they? And I don’t believe they ever figured out that you already had a name that you picked up somewhere else. In that other range of mountains where you’ve been seen now and again, I believe they call you Garuda, don’t they?”
When I said that, those red eyes of his blinked half a dozen times, and he started looking around the yard, as if he expected people to jump out of the bushes and tackle him. I couldn’t think of anybody that would want to try, but I just kept smiling pleasantly at him, while he made up his mind about what to do next.
Finally, in a guttural voice with an accent I couldn’t place, he said, “There are many garudas. It is not a name.”
He droned on for a while about the four garuda kings, and about the great cities of the garuda, and their eternal enemies the nagas, which, as far as I could tell, were either snakes or dragons, but apparently the garudas’ mission in life was to kill nagas. He claimed he could get so big that his wingspan would be twelve hundred miles wide, and that with one flap of those wings he could dry up the sea. He offered to demonstrate, but since Tennessee is within twelve hundred miles of the ocean, I thought it best to decline the offer.
I shrugged. “Well, maybe garuda isn’t a given name, then. I thought it had more of a ring to it than Mothman, but that’s just a personal preference.”
He just went on staring, so I said, “You are that particular garuda, though, aren’t you? The one in West Virginia that they called Mothman?”
It had been about two hundred miles north of here, as the … well, moth … flies. Back in the late 1960s, as I recall, two young couples had spotted a hawklike creature out in a rural area near an abandoned military facility outside Point Pleasant, West Virginia. The thing had scared the bejesus out of them. They even claimed he flew after their speeding car. But aside from a few evening appearances to frighten the locals, he hadn’t really done any harm. Not so much as a chicken went missing anywhere that could be blamed on him. But then, in December of ’67 something terrible did happen. And he got blamed for that quick enough, which is human nature, I suppose, to single out the different one and then ascribe all the bad luck to his existence. Of course, they might have been right. Given the powers he claimed he had, he would certainly be capable of wreaking any amount of havoc. I was trying to think of a polite way to introduce the topic, without—you know—ruffling his feathers.
“The Mothman, yes,” the creature said, nodding his head slowly up and down. “I was called that once. They searched for me for many days then. But we can change. Change size. Change shape. Some garudas can take on the aspect of a human.”
I eyed him thoughtfully. “You haven’t quite got the hang of that yet, have you?”
He shrugged—at least I think that’s what it was. Then he leaned forward and locked eyes with me, and he seemed to wait for a minute as if he was listening to something far off. “You don’t mind this visit from me,” he said slowly, stating a fact. Then he cocked his head and waited some more. “You are not afraid of me, not like other people are. You like your solitude—yes … understandable. But you would mind even more having some ordinary human intrude upon you here—a hiker perhaps, or a tourist. You prefer me to them.”
Well, you can’t argue with a creature who tunes in to minds as if they were radio stations, so I just nodded and sat back, wondering what it was he had come about. He wasn’t ready to tell me, though, and after the silence had stretched on for a couple of minutes, I said, “You know, you scared people pretty bad back in the sixties in West Virginia, appearing in the dark in front of their cars, and peeking in the windows of a house. They’re still talking about it.”
He grunted.
“Somebody even came through here one time wearing a Mothman T-shirt. I reckon you’re as close as West Virginia has ever come to having a dragon.”
He growled deep in his throat, and those big leathery wings of his rustled some. “I … am … not a naga!”
“No, no. No offense. Easy there, big guy.” If you think ambassadors have a tough job, you should try having diplomatic relations with a supernatural being. “I just meant that you were out of the ordinary for the area. They’re not used to big scary things with wings.”
“I was there before they were.”
I nodded, not the least bit surprised. “Thought that might be the case,” I said. “Seems to me I heard a Shawnee tale or two that you’d fit into pretty well.”
“The old ones. Yes. They understood me better than these people there now.”
“Well, I expect that was because folks back then just accepted the evidence of their own senses, whereas people today are always having to filter their reality through science textbooks and conventional wisdom and whatever the journalists are selling this month, which is just another name for the lies everybody believes.”
He ignored that last sally. Apparently, he wasn’t up to debating the politics of culture, or else, after the first few millennia, it just becomes monotonous. He said, “I was there already. I was there before the people. When I first knew the place, the land was covered by a warm shallow sea.”
I nodded. “I’d heard that. A few million years back, wasn’t it? Most of the continent was underwater back then. I know coal was formed from the ferns around that time. Bet there were dinosaurs poking around in the shallows of those ancient seas.”
His eyes flashed again, and he hissed, “Nagas!”
“Well … I suppose … to stretch a point.” Dragons, dinosaurs … it was all a question of semantics, I reckon. Or maybe we all just see what we expect to see. “But they’re all gone now.”
The eyes glowed red again, and he said, with something like satisfaction warming his voice, “All gone. Yes. I killed them.”
“You—” I remembered I was talking to a deity of sorts, and that his experience of time and reality was not the same as mine. Anyhow, I wasn’t going to out-and-out call him a liar. I’ve had so much practice being polite to city-slicker trail bunnies that putting up with an ancient winged monster was a piece of cake. Anyhow, his tales were less outlandish than some of theirs. “Killed them yourself, did you?”
His wings fluttered a little. “I told you. When I attain my full size, and beat my wings, I can dry up the sea.”
“Yes, you did mention that. I reckon that would do it. I’ll take your word for it. So you dried up that shallow sea that was covering West Virginia, and then you killed off the nagas that were left?”
He nodded. “Then I rested for a great stretch of time. Things were quiet.”
We lapsed into a companionable silence while I mulled over this new theory of dinosaur extinction. I didn’t think there would be any use mentioning it up at the university, though. I didn’t have any letters after my name, so I wasn’t even allowed to have an opinion. Besides, the truth is just what everybody already believes, and this wouldn’t fit into their game plan even a little bit.
After a few more minutes of companionable silence, another thought struck me. “How come you stayed around after you had destroyed all the nagas?”
“I required a long rest after such a great battle.”
“A few million years, huh? That’s how I feel when I’ve cooked a whole kettle full of stew and then tried to eat it all. Makes me want to sleep for days. You ate them, didn’t you? The nagas? All of them?”
He grunted. “As many as I could. I spit their bones into the mud.”
“Yeah. I think we found them.”
“Then I went back to the other oceans, where there are other garudas. Time passed there. We built cities, and fought other nagas. But one day I returned to the land where the shallow sea had been. And when I arrived, there were new minds in the land where the seas had been. Minds like yours.”
“That would have been the Shawnee, I expect. I think we’re distantly related.” And if he had left in the late Pleistocene and returned with the Shawnee, that had been one heck of a long nap, followed by an extended visit to Asia, between wiping out the dinosaurs and turning up again in West Virginia maybe three thousand years ago. But, like I said, he may not experience time the way we do, and I wasn’t up to talking metaphysics with him—not sober, anyhow. I had a jug of moonshine under the sink, and it crossed my mind to offer him some of it, but he looked like he might turn out to be a mean drunk, so I thought better of it.
“Shawnee …” He was tasting the word, or maybe trying to set up a chord in his memory. I wondered where he had been lately.
“Yes, I expect you remember them. They were quiet folks, living with the land, before the current occupants arrived and started paving roads through the forests and cutting off mountaintops to get to the coal.”
He nodded slowly, as if he were summoning up the memory from a long way off. “I remember them. That was a peaceful time. The creatures who inhabit a garuda’s land become as children to us, and from time to time we try to listen to their wishes, and to please them.”
The Monster's Corner: Stories Through Inhuman Eyes Page 11