Mitch: A Short Story

I’ve been living in this cave, in this mountainous country, in this wild copse of bush and rock since the very first moment of my life. I have never seen another living being besides my mother, and in the years since she was taken I’ve yet to meet another soul.

When she was stolen from me, a night many years ago, it was only after warning me to hide. She had sensed it coming, the woman I called Amala, sometimes Mother; she explained to me in words and signals, touches and movements, that I was to stay.

Waving graceful arms, she gestured to the jars of pickled flowers, and then the low fire in the corner of the cave’s single room. Petting my cheek, her large brown eyes round and wet with tears, she shook cave dust from her fur and strode into the hall and out of our home. When she met the snow and wind of a dark winter the smell of gasoline fires and wax carried off the back of her shoulders. Rusty blood and guttural chants echoed against the stone walls, carried into my ears, bouncing in my skull, mocking me. I huddled under the blankets she had made for me, crying into the smell lingering in each stitch. My mother, sacrificed to the Bonpos, her blood precious wine on their evil lips. Hairless, cruel, monsters.

Amala had described all others this way. Hairless. Cruel. Monsters. She pointed one out to me, from the safety of a high cliff, as they struggled to climb while carrying heavy loads of cloth and dried meats. They had metal and wood and wheels and guns. Cruel. With heavy fabrics covering their limbs and centers. Hairless. They killed animals for sport, watched them suffer for sport, hated anything different, anything special. Monsters. It was drilled into my head, day in, day out. Sun up, sun down. Hairless. Cruel. Monsters.

But I didn’t want to believe what I was told. I still don’t.

I refuse to think that, although they are different from me in size and they have no fur and when they speak it sounds like rubbish to my ears, that they are too different to connect with. It is my dream that one day I should find one of them, one of the humans, and wrap my arms around them.

When the chirping, squeaking calls carry into the cave I know it is time to rise, to start gathering for the day before the animals have taken the best pick. I stretch and raise my arms high, enough that were I to jump they would graze the smooth surface of the ceiling. Mother had scraped it flat with a heavy piece of lava rock, black and shining with dead mountain.

The blue sheep has already wandered away in search of high grass and low shrubs. I have not named him, because I am afraid as soon as I do he will feel how tightly I cling to him and he will leave. That is how I imagine all wild creatures must feel. There are snow leopards, and musk deer, and wild boars, and I’m sure if I was patient I could buy their companionship with trails of food and the promise of a warm, quiet place to rest, but this blue sheep seemed to need me. It bleated and groaned in a way I thought was lonely, like myself, so luring it into my friendship was less difficult than a more independent or violent beast. Although, I admit, a snow leopard would be a hunting partner more equal to my skill. The sheep only leaves to eat, then returns to rest, and continues that cycle every few clicks of the sun until it is dark. On the other hand, I remind myself, were I to invite the snow leopard into my life, he might eat my blue sheep, and the creature is dumb, but sweet, and I would miss him.

I help myself to some pickled rhododendrons, sweetened with garlic and sugar. There are some cubes of meat left in the wooden box by the hall, the wind and salt within keeping it fresh, but I think saving those bits until lunch will make for good motivation not to wander too far.

When I take morning walks, hoping to catch fish, or a sickly boar, or a plethora of edible flora, I have a tendency to head more south than I should. The mountains, carrying from one side of my vision to the other, are grandiose and change colors with the sun. I wish to climb each one, individually, and name them to my liking. After-all, if I cling to them afterwards they have no choice but to suffer in my grip.

My stomach full of purple flowers I meet the morning sunshine with a fresh eye. It is late in the blooming season and soon the heat will rise, forcing me to hide longer in the shade of home to avoid tiring and lightheadedness. Everything is green and brown now, in varying shades of each color so that the sunlight makes each tint stand alone, a cacophony of tones and hues that sparkle and amaze. Wide space reaches out before me and my steps are sure on the spongy earth. I do not feel the twigs or rocks beneath my toes; my feet hardened long ago, and as my muscles tingle awake, they are urging me to be faster, to explore with every second available to me.

So I run. With great leaping strides I pass through the land I know so well, trees and rock formations, plants I have known as landmarks, and even the blue sheep, all race past my eyes. Running feels right, the powerful muscles in my legs carrying my weight with ease. It lightens the air in my lungs, makes my throat burn a bit with spirit. I forget about loneliness and cruelty and blood and instead there is just me and the rhythmic thump of my heavy steps.

I’ve headed south again, I scold myself, but a smirk alights my cheeks. I cannot help it. I want to touch each mountain with my fingertips, although they are all still so far from me. Will each one feel the same? I have asked myself this question many times, and I’ve decided one will feel warm, one will feel jagged as if with spiny bugs, one will be moss-coated and soft. One will be covered in the chalky dust of volcano ash. I will come home to the blue sheep and describe each one in detail to his dopey face, and then I’ll pet his fluffy hide and feed him grass.

A slight crash sounds beside me, and with a calm that comes from years and years of spontaneous sounds I turn my head. A bear is watching me, its paw raised over a group of broken branches. It had fallen through a patch of rotten wood, and its eyes were wide with fear. I crouch low to appear less intimidating and when it lowers its paw back to the ground, seemingly uninjured, I back away, eyes and face aimed to the side, as if I were a wolf allowing dominance. It understands the gesture and moseys on its way. Bears have chased me before. When they are hungry my companionship is not worth the meat on my bones, or the hot blood in my chest.

I watch it lumber away, its brown fur shiny in the sunlight. I take its healthy coat to mean fish are plentiful and make my way east so that I can try my own luck with baiting and snatching a meal.

The sun is high when I reach the stream which widens in the north. There are colorful flashes of scales beneath the frothing waters, and the sight makes my mouth swim with hunger. I imagine their blackened skin falling away in the fire, the meat beneath white and pink and warm sliding into my belly. My mother ate most of these animals rare, the ones that shoot beneath the surface in darts and squiggles. They move like a dance too fast to follow, involving too many creatures to ever recreate. It is choreographed to the weather, the size of the stream, the depth, the smooth textures of the rocks their scaled tummies graze. I wished to be one for a short while, and even learned to cross the stream as a frog might, with legs spread wide, but when I outgrew the naïve dreams of breathing as they do, I still attempted to appreciate their wilds without my intervention.

Using the tumbled rocks on the edges of the river I build a small wall. It is simple enough to add branches and boulders and a fallen log to enhance the barrier, fortifying the wall into a solid mass no fish could wriggle through. As they pelt themselves against the sticks and stones, a few managing to tumble over into freedom, I build a similar structure a few feet down the stream. It is not in their nature to head back to wherever they’d been traveling from, and I have them blocked in within minutes. Now they are a pool of food; all I need is to snatch them from the water.

I hold my fingers outstretched, nails pointed as five sharp spears. With all my speed I flash my hand into the water again and again. Sometimes I make contact, other times I miss, but for the majority I strike food gold and pull up a squirmy creature. One quick tap on the rocks beside me and it grows still.

With a pile of fish amassed I kick down the barriers and allow the rest to continue their journey. I have no idea what they are so eager to get to, but it must be important.

Because my stomach is yelling at me to do so, I eat one of them raw, but the rest I carry in my arms back west and north, to the place I spend my nights. My cave. My home.

I have a basket for such uses, but I hadn’t wanted it weighing me down as I ran. Now I can stroll, smooth and quiet, through the forest and along the fields, against the rocky outcroppings that pop up like blemishes on smooth hills of grass. The sun lowers, and a breeze lifts the fur on my arms. The air caresses my face and I breathe in the smell of wild flowers and something sweet enough to be honey. I will return later and steal some of their gooey crop if I can put them to sleep long enough. Honey is good to put on meat, or grain, or the flowers and food I grow out of the ground. It’s good on almost anything, come to think of it.

The blue sheep spots me and trots after me as I head into the hall. The smell of pickled flowers and fire embers tickle my nose as I enter. A wash of peace slides over me, and the walls around my body tell me I am safe.

When I drop the fish into the wooden box I add more salt and settle down onto my blankets, ready for a break. There are several pitchers, some with tops and some bare, laden with various levels of fresh water. I see that I am low but my legs are weary from running and carrying fish the long way. The light outside is dimming and I know I will have to eventually grow the fire back into roaring flames, as well as replenish the pitchers, but for now I close my eyes and let the blue sheep’s breathing as it reposes similarly lull me into a short nap.

The dying light and encroaching night chill wake me and begrudgingly I start to build the fire. The sheep looks on with dull eyes. It has no idea what I’m doing, but I might be keeping it alive. I see other wild sheep now and then, so I know they survive at night without a fire, but I believe they pile into a heap or something similar. The flames crackle and pop, chewing the wood with loud teeth, and I roll my shoulders, enjoying the sensation and the warmth pouring into my little home. I could cover the hall with blankets and large rocks, which keeps out the storms of winter, but it is not nearly that cold yet. I have months more to enjoy before such measures are necessary.

The sheep bleats quietly, his gaze curious on the corner where Amala’s pickling instruments lay on a slab of rough wood, held up by a series of roughly-square blocks. I tell the sheep to not think about it. He knows those tools are important. They are my puffy wool, they are my grass. The animal shivers, moves closer by an inch or two to myself and the fire, and closes its eyes again.

I lick my lips and down one of the pitchers. I now only have one left, and it is still fresh but Amala’s voice is in my mind, telling me water and food and the cave are all that stands between a heartbeat and a cold death. I heave a sigh, a smile forming despite myself. She was full of wonderful sayings. Words that were so wise, and sometimes so beautifully said.

I only learned a few terms, as well as a couple of important phrases, but for the most part we understood each other without the need for language you could write or teach others. We had one book; tattered and faded and with missing pages. Amala had taken it from an empty campsite. She had wondered aloud how someone could leave it behind, but the words were written in lines and criss-crosses neither of us could understand. There were picture of plants on every other page; mostly mushrooms and their different shapes, but the one time I stole the book from her possession and wandered about I was unable to find any of the plants the book depicted. It was weeks later when I would accidentally stumble on a patch I recognized from its pages.

I had a dizzy spell, a horrible stomach ache, and raging fever dreams when I ate the lot. From that point forward I never ate mushrooms that Amala did not specifically pick for me and cook until burnt.

Pitcher in hand, I leave the sheep to his toasty fireside sleeping spot and head into the night. The sky is enormous, taking up more than half of the world. Where the tree tops end it starts, and it just keeps going. Tonight the sky is a purple-black. Sometimes it seems bluer, sometimes with hints of green, but the purple there tonight make the movement of the stars more magical. I see a star dart across the sky. It rarely happens, and I hope it does not fall onto the land near me, for I imagine the landing to be awful and intense, but I still feel my mouth drop open at the sight.

Amala said that I should always appreciate a falling star, because it meant somewhere, far away, someone had made a wish so large it caused the sky to tremble. My wishes had never been large enough to cause one to fall. I have simple wishes that no star needs to be involved with. Food. Water. Fire. Companionship. Good weather. I don’t know what else there is to wish for, to be perfectly honest.

This far north the waters are denser with silt and the fish have spread wide making a game of build and catch troublesome. This is why I get to enjoy a walk south now and then. But the water itself, when filtered, is crisp and cold on the tongue, perfect for sipping, guzzling, boiling, mixing, anything I could think to do with it.

My arm muscles bunch as I haul the water back towards the cave, but something catches my eye. A waft of gray-black smoke against the clear star-bedazzled sky rises in a thin but steady stream. It is not the right time for grass fires, and it is not coming from the direction of my home. For a second I am relieved. My blue sheep did not roll into the fire as he slept, leaping out into the open air to spread the flames from tree to tree. It’s a dream I’ve often had, waking me with short breaths and a sweaty face. But no, it is too north, and not enough east. Plus, it is not moving.

I leave the pitcher by an overgrown weed with tiny yellow flowers, keeping low to the ground as I stalk the source of the smoke. I am careful to place each of my toes just so, one at a time, on the lookout for any misplaced stick or leaf that might announce me.

When I near a copse of tall bushy trees the smell of burning wood carries on the wind. I hear meat spitting its grease onto the flames, feeding them with blood.

Crouching alongside a thick tree trunk rich with bugs and small, squirrel-type animals with striped fur, I peek my eyes over its rim. There are three of them. Hairless. Cruel. Monsters. But they do not seem mean to me. Sitting on a fallen tree they have made a small fire and roast a hunk of boar over its heat. Two of them are talking, the smoke and gravel in their tones somehow making their meager frames more impressive. They have language, and numbers, two things I have always been without. This makes them dangerous to me. But still, I inch closer, the idea of humans, real humans, too enticing for me to rebuff.

I think of approaching them with my head down, with my hands up, with my body low to the ground, with a smile on my face, but all my imaginations result in screams. They have guns at their feet. One of their group, who sits slightly away from the two conversing, is watching the surrounding woods with a cautious eye. Side to side he slowly shakes his head, scanning the ground, then the trees, then the sky only to repeat this process time and time again. I wonder if there is a song he knows which matches the rhythm or if this is simply a habit too ingrained to ignore.

Maybe in the dead of night, as they sleep under the stars, I will steal their guns, hiding them under piles of lively earth, and the ground will swallow them whole. Then I can announce myself, quietly, and to much fanfare as they inspect my thick coat, my bright eyes, my strong limbs. Maybe they will not be threatened.

I sigh to myself for childish needs and think maybe this is a wish big enough to shake the sky loose. Wishing for these men to love me as I love my cave, my sheep, my land, my legs.

I crouch an inch too close and the fire must reflect on the dark part of my eyes, for the man separated whips his head to face my direction. Slowly I back away, my heart pounding and tightening in my chest. If he sees me, if he raises a weapon, I do not know that I can outrun its power. This man is wearing different clothes from the others, I notice belatedly. Less of it, but better material, made from strong animals and tightly-woven strands of wool. The others are in layers and layers of thin and gray tunics. I wonder what they would think of my fur.

The man moves his head away, his eyes leaving my spot by the tree and speaks to the others, breaking through their conversation with a thin and wheezy voice. I do not understand the verses he speaks, but they are rhythmic like poetry. His tone is calm and I almost feel at ease, simply crouching in the dark, listening for as long as he will deign to continue, but then, unmistakable, one word stands out bold and brass and full of peril: Michê.

Amala had said the word to me many a time. When she held me, when I cried, when I made her proud catching a rabbit or picking her flowers to make her smile. Michê. I thought of it as my name, and when I tried to ask her, pointing to myself, repeating the word with the question blatant in my eyes, she nodded, but then seemed to change her mind. I was “Mitch,” but I was also michê. She was michê. We were michê. I finally understood. This was the name of our species, at least as far as she was concerned, and now this man covered in skins and fabrics is talking about us, about me.

Fear flying through my veins I turn and run before they can pick up their guns. The night air is cold in my lungs, the earth hard and frigid under my thick feet. Everything seems unpleasant to the touch as I flee for my life, although no sounds, no footsteps, no gun blasts follow me. Amala said they would sound like thunder and burn like lightning against the eyes and ears, the smell sharp. Nothing of the like finds its way to me, and as my steps slow I feel another, even more distressing horror. Have I overreacted? Would they really have shot me? Maybe I should return. Hairless. Cruel. Monsters. Hairless. Cruel. Monsters.

I shake the words from my head like water. The wars inside of me rage. Safety and danger. Alone and together. Known and unknown. I raise my lips to the night sky and think of roaring, shaking the stars free with my cries, but I keep silent, my mother’s voice repeating and strengthening until it is a shout, until it forms into black noise as she walks into the snowy night to die, never letting the Bonpos know she had left someone behind.

With slow and dragging steps I finish the trek home and immediately attempt to sleep, the blue sheep not even aware I had left. Somehow that hurts me, but I ignore the twinge of disappointment, letting the orange glow of the fire against the cave walls lull me into slumber.

I make a point, the next day, to ensure my routine remain unchanged. It is time to gather rhododendron flowers, to pickle them as Amala did, and to keep myself healthy and strong. I head south, carrying against one arm the basket she had made for such a process. It is long and only slightly curved so that from far away it appears almost flat. It was not made for carrying berries or water or mushrooms, but the flat flowers, purple, pink and white, which were her favorite treat drenched in sugar and vinegar and with a sprinkling of salt. I prefer the garlic, myself.

Quick and sure, I head to the Zemu, which is what Amala had called the area. I thought the name stood for the sound of the wind as it whistled between the two tallest mountains, but she only laughed when I told her so. The flowers grow in huge bunches here, especially at this time of year. I am to pick sparingly now so they continue to flourish, but when the wind picks up and the summer sun is swallowed by the leaves that fall in droves I am to pick the plants clean, take every flower I can carry, in as many trips as it takes. Then I will soak them in the salt-vinegar mixture and lock them tightly in full jars.

Amala made sure I would have enough vinegar to last me many wholesome years. When I run out, if I run out, she said I will have to learn to make do without the flowers. I simultaneously hope and fear that I will not live to see the end of my vinegar supply.

When I first come upon the bushes I start picking without thought. The motions are instinct now, something my fingers do without the rest of my body being aware. I gaze to the left where I see boar tracks. Is this where those humans caught their dinner, I wonder. Are those the tracks they followed and hunted?

“Tombazi!” a voice yells and the sound startles even my hardened nerves. I jump and cram the basket against my side in reflex. My legs tremble beneath me as I search for the source of the shout.

There. The humans from the night before. They are west of my position, the human with skins and cloth raising an arm in my direction, gesturing to the two others with wild motions.

One of the two others, with a faded red scarf about his neck, raises a box, shiny as mountain rock, to his face. The flowers tumble from my hands and I drop the bucket, instinct telling me to scamper, to zig-zag, to sprint until my body gives way. I run, and when I turn to peek behind me I see they are trying to follow, but there is no way they can match my speed. They are weighed down with heavy bags, their legs thinner than mine, their chests smaller and unable to hold as much air. My long strides eat up the green earth beneath me and when I reach the tree line into the thick wood they cease to trail me.

I watch them from my location for many clicks of the sun. They settle down into the grass to eat. The one in red argues loudly with the others. The one in skins crosses his arms. I replicate the gesture to see how it feels, but my arms are too big to combine snuggly the way his fit together. They set up a fire in a similar fashion to the night before. From the shadow of the wood I watch them eat, relieve themselves, talk in hushed voices, then loud, then hushed again. These are humans? They seem so simple. They seem so close. My eyes are keen and I catch their body language even from this distance. I cannot see the expressions on their faces, but their muscles, strained or loose, bunched or spread, tell the stories their faces must repeat.

When one of the men unpacks his bag I see they have the pitcher I left near the weeds. How they found it is a mystery, but they are treating it with reverence. They place it by the fire after the man with the faded red scarf turns it this way and that, inspecting it in the sunlight and running his fingers over the handle. He likes my pitcher a lot, and for that I am grateful he found it. Does this mean they are fond of me? Do they want to talk to me? Befriend me?

I would not understand them if they spoke, but maybe if I brought them something to eat, or gave them flowers like I did with Amala. Gifts speak words I cannot fathom with my mouth alone.

With this in mind I leave their camp, traveling through the underbrush searching for the right bouquet. Other than rhododendron petals this area is quite sparse. I find a few weeds here and there, but mostly there are leafy greens not fit for the eye to behold. I pass them, grazing my fingertips along their leaves reverently. It is not their fault they are not colorful, they are still important. When I find a bush of purple-yellow sprouts I am elated. They made a beautiful bunch in my hands, tall and proud with little heads of bursting color. Cheerful and smart-looking, they are perfect.

The men have set up a makeshift cave, made entirely of reams of heavy weave. I watch two of the men hide inside and I am impressed with the hasty construction. The wind blows but the cave barely moves. Light shines from within, outlining their forms in white. I watch the man in the skins keep the fire alive for hours more while he sits vigilant, his back straight and sturdy like a tree.

When he finally succumbs to sleep my heart begins to pound again. On the log he lies prone, the fire shaking the shadows on his face so that I cannot tell if he is moving or still. I take my chances and head onward, the flower stems held tightly in my grip. I hope I am not hurting them, but I cannot relax my fingers.

Each step forward shakes my resolve and fear races through me with each beat of my pulse. Acid churns in my gut from not having eaten today. My face is wet from nerves. As quiet as is possible I creep closer and closer to their camp. This near to the man in skins I can smell his distinct odor; the musk that marks him as an individual. It is sharp and misty with the wilderness around him, as if it has sunk into his skin. It’s not unpleasant.

My foot nears the pitcher and instinctively I reach for it. It’s empty of water now but I hold the device close to my belly. I want to wake the human. I want to put my hand on his skin and determine the texture. Will it feel like my hairless palms? Like a smooth stone? Like a springy moss? But I know the touch would wake me, and if he is anything like me it will wake him too. The guns, I think belatedly. I should have watched where they were putting the guns. Why hadn’t I watched?

I could have hid them and maybe then I would feel more brazen. I do not consider myself afraid of many things, but the idea of this man waking and hating me fills me with terror not unlike the threat of impending death. I let my fear rule out and I place the flowers on the ground by the spot his arm hangs off the log. When he wakes it will be to their pleasant aroma and attractive colors. There is no way he would dislike the gesture, I am sure.

Movement catches my attention and I see the man with the faded red scarf staring at me from the mouth of his fabric cave. My stomach drops into the ground and panic prods me like a blazing ember. His eyes are wide with fear, but then again, mine are likely mirrors to his own.

I want to stay. I want to stand proud and face him. Try to speak, try to communicate in some way. It is what I have wanted since the moment I saw the group. To connect. If I could reach him in some way, maybe they would take me in. I could be a mother to them and teach them how to trap fish and pickle flowers and keep blue sheep by their beds.

But my body seizes and I cannot smile or spread my arms wide to embrace him. Fear overrides all my desires, all my wishes. The man nods, remaining silent. He does not alert the man I kneel in front of, nor does he call for the other he travels with—the one still hidden away—but regardless of his cooperation my body betrays me, and with a sinking heart I yield to my instincts. I run.

Without thought or control I run for miles. My face is wet from crying and I am so angry with myself I finally allow myself to howl, to roar, to scream into the night.

Stars fall, but now I see they are wishes that cannot come true. Wishes that once burned with lit ambition only to fail and flee from their disastrous attempts at achievement. In that instant I am a shooting star and as I bolt to my cave, to my blue sheep, to my slowly dwindling vinegar reserves I pray for just one chance. I plead and beg and wish to all the stars in the sky for just that one glorious incident. One occasion where I might overcome my primitive fear and shortcoming, my instinctual need to be unseen, and walk into the sunlit sky, connecting with more than just the grass beneath my toes.