The Beastly Bride

THE ABOMINABLE CHILD’S TALE Carol Emshwiller

Did Mother say to always go down?

But maybe she said always go up.

Did she say follow streams, and then rivers? First paths and then a road? And then a road all covered with hard stuff? Did she say there’d be a town if you go far enough?

Or did she say, whatever you do, don’t follow roads? Stay away from towns?

She always did say, “You’re not lost.” She always said, “You’re my forest girl. You know which way is up.” She didn’t mean I know up from down, she meant I always know where I am or that I can find out where I am if I’m not sure.

But Mother didn’t come back. Even though she’s a forest girl, too. She had her best little bow, her slingshot, and her knife.

I waited and waited. I made marmot soup all by myself. It turned out really good, so I was especially sorry she wasn’t here. I barred the door, but I listened for her. I studied my subtraction and then I read a history lesson. I didn’t sleep very well. I’m used to having her, nice and warm, beside me.

Did she say, “If I don’t come back after three days, leave?” Or did she only say that when I was little and not that much of a forest girl like I am now? Way back then I would have needed somebody to help me.

She did say that I never listen and that I never pay attention, and I guess this proves it.

But what if she comes back and I’m not here? What if she’s tired? I could help. I could pump up the shower.

Except what if she doesn’t come back?

I was always asking if we couldn’t go where there were people, and she was always saying, “It’s safer here.” And I’d say, “What about the mountain lions?” And she’d say, “Even so, it’s much safer up here — for us.”

She said not to let anybody see us, but she didn’t say why.

She did say people are always shooting things before they even know what they are.

What if I’m some sort of a creature that should be shot? Eaten, too?

Or is she? We don’t look much alike. Maybe she’s the odd one.

I asked her about all that once, but she wouldn’t talk about it. Now and then, in summer, when there are people camping all the way up here, we go yet higher and hide out until they’re gone. Mother always said, “Let’s us go on a camping trip, too,” but she couldn’t fool me with that. I knew she wanted to keep us secret, but I played along. I never said I didn’t want to go. If we were in trouble some way I wanted us to stay out of it.

I know a lot more than she thinks I do.

I wander all over, trying to see what happened to her. I see where she crossed the stream and started down to the muddy pond, but then I lose track. I check the pond, but she never got there. There’s a fish on the line. I bring it home for supper.

The thing is, do I want to spend my life here alone? Waiting? Does Mother even want me to? I can come back after I see what’s beyond the paths. Mother said two-storey houses and even three-storey. Also I’d really, really like to see a paved road — once in my life anyway.

I wait the three days, looking for her all that time, then I leave. I take Mother’s treasure. She had this little leather book. Even when we just went up to hide, she took that with her and kept it dry.

There are lots of books here — actually twelve — but I don’t take any except the one Mother always wrote in and locked shut.

I stop at the look-over and think to go back, just in case she came home exactly when I left, but I did leave a note. Actually two notes, one on the door and one inside. The one inside I shaped like a heart. It was on the paper we made out of stems. I don’t need to tell her where I’m headed. She’ll see that. I’m leaving a lot of clues all along the way.

It turns out exactly like Mother said it would: a river and then a bigger river and a path and then a road, and after that the wonderful, wonderful paved road. Pretty soon I see, in the distance, a town. Even from here I can tell some of the houses are tall.

I wait till dark. I’m not sure what’s wrong with me, but it’s a town with plenty of bushes around. I don’t think it’ll be hard to hide. I never had a good look at those people that come in the summer. Mother tried to get me away as fast as she could. I’ve only seen them from a distance. Besides, they were all covered up with clothes, sunglasses, and hats.

We have those.

I want to see what they’re like so I can see what might be wrong with me. Though maybe Mother did something really, really bad a long time ago and had to hide out in the mountains. They couldn’t put me in prison for something she did, could they?

I wait till dark and then I creep into town. Everything is closed up. Hardly any lights on. (I know all about electricity, though I’ve never seen it till now.) I wait till everything except the streetlights are out. I wait for them to go out, too, but they don’t.

I wander backyards. I try to see into windows, but I waited too long for those streetlights to go out. Every house is dark, except for now and then an upstairs window.

In one yard I hide behind laundry where somebody’s mother forgot to bring it in before dark. Mother sometimes did that, too, but I didn’t. She had a lot on her mind. She was always worried.

I just about give up — everybody seems to be in bed — but then I see somebody sneaking out a window, trying to be quiet. It’s that very yard where the laundry is still out.

I hide behind the sheets, but so does whoever crawled out the window. We bump right into each other. We both gasp. I can see on that one’s face that it’s going to yell but I’m about to, too, and then we both cover our mouths with our hands, as if we both don’t want to attract attention. Then we stare.

If this one is how I’m supposed to be then I’m all wrong. This one looks like Mother, not like me. I have way too much hair. All over. Are they all like this? But I’ve suspected something was wrong with me for a long time, else why did Mother act as she did, always keeping us away from everybody?

I can’t tell if it’s a boy or a girl. I’m not used to how they look here or how they dress. Then I see it’s got to be a girl. She’s wearing this lacy kind of top. I never had anything like that but Mother did. This girl seems to be just my size. At least my size is right.

She’s like Mother, no hair anywhere except a lot on her head. Mother always said it was a disadvantage, not having hair all over. And it was. She was always cold. But I’d rather be like everybody else.

So we’re standing there with our hands over our mouths, staring at each other.

Then she says, “Can you talk?”

And I say, “Of course. Why not?”

What an odd question. What does she think I am? Except I am all wrong. I was afraid of that. But we’re exactly the same height, and both of us are skinny. I’m wearing shorts and a T-shirt. She wearing shorts, too, and this fancy blouse. And I see now she has the beginnings of breasts just like I do. Hairiness looks to be our only difference. I don’t have that much on my face — thank goodness. I guess.

“Am I all wrong?”

It’s the question I’ve been wanting to ask just about all my life but didn’t know it till right now.

I can tell from the way she says “Well. ” that I am and that she wants to be nice about it.

She says, “Come.”

Way back at the end of her yard, there’s a funny little house that we have to lean over to go in. It has two tiny rooms that you couldn’t lie down straight out in unless you put your feet through the door into the other room. It has a little table and chairs, too small for any regular-size person. Are there people I never knew about?

The girl lights a candle, and we squinch into the little chairs next to the little table.

Even in this light I can see her eyes are blue just like mine. We’re an awful lot the same.

“Dad was going to take this house down, but I said, not yet.” She has a dad!

“So what about you? What are you, anyway?”

I can’t answer. I feel like crying. I have to say, “I don’t know.”

“We could look you up online. There’s a lot of choices: Yeti, Abominable Snowman, Sasquatch, Bigfoot. ”

She knows more about me than I do.

“I suppose abominable.”

“I don’t think so. You’re too nice-looking. Are you crying?”

I thought I was holding it back but that makes me feel worse than ever. I really do start to cry. Mother would be saying, “Where’s my forest girl?”

“That’s all right, go ahead and cry. I’ll make you tea, and there’s cookies, too. I don’t have a stove in here, Dad wouldn’t let me, this is just sun tea, but it’s good. I know I’m too old to have a playhouse like this, but I want it, anyway. It comes in handy, like right now.”

The tea is nothing like anything I’ve had before, even though we have lots of teas up there. And the cookies are like nothing I ever had either. I say, “I never had these.”

“Oatmeal with raisins. Mom thinks they’re good for you. She’s a great believer in oatmeal.”

I guess her mother is right. I feel better after the tea and a couple of cookies.

But I’m thinking maybe she has a bad mother. I’ve heard of that. After all, she sneaked out the window.

“Were you escaping? I thought maybe your mother was mean and you were running away.”

“Oh no, my folks are fine. I sneak out lots of times when there’s a moon like this. I’m fourteen. I’m old enough to be on my own.”

“I’m fourteen, too, and I am on my own, but I don’t want to be.”

“I don’t know what Mother would do about you, though. Call the police. or the doctor. Or maybe the zoo.”

“Am I all wrong?”

“You’re probably some sort of mutation.”

How can she be so sure of herself all the time? But she does seem to know a lot.

“I don’t want to be put in the zoo.”

“That wouldn’t be so bad. I wouldn’t mind at all if it were me. I’d come visit you. But I don’t even know your name. Mine is Molly. I picked it out myself two years ago when I started junior high.”

“You named yourself?”

“Lots of people do. You could, too. But do you have one?”

“Of course I do. I’m not. ”

But maybe I am — sort of an animal. “Mother calls me Binny. It’s short for Sabine.”

“Sabine!”

She looks impressed.

“Don’t change it!”

We both get tired at the same time. Molly goes back in through her window and brings me a pillow and a blanket. Tells me to keep quiet and she’ll bring me breakfast after her parents go to work. She says, “Not to worry. Nobody. Nobody would dare go in my playhouse unless invited.”

It feels good to stretch out all the way through the two rooms after hunching over all that time. And I’ve never had such a soft pillow before.

I wake at dawn, as I usually do. Things are pretty much quiet all over the whole town. I hunch myself around the little house. I didn’t get a good look at it last night in the candlelight. There’s a mirror. I see me. Actually Molly and I look kind of alike. Our eyes are blue. Our hair is tawny.

Hair!

On a shelf I find a doll. a very worn-out doll (not hairy), and a worn-out (hairy) dog doll beside it.

The town starts waking up. Doors slam. Cars drive by, but out along the front of the houses, way across the lawn from me. I saw those last night. Some even came right close to me while I was waiting for it to get dark. Trucks, too. I saw everything Mother talked about and drew pictures of. I even went up to a car and looked in. I saw the steering wheel and the pedals. I can’t wait till I get to ride in one. Maybe Molly can get me a ride. A truck would be even more fun than a car, the bigger the better. I’ll ask her.

I wait and wait for Molly to bring breakfast. Finally she does. Stuff I never had before. Toast and sausages. Actually, enough for both of us. She wants to eat with me. First thing she says is, “I hate eggs.”

I’ve had eggs lots of times and I like them but I don’t say it. “I have to go to school. Whatever you do, don’t leave here in the daytime. I’ll take you out tonight. We have to figure out what to do about you.”

I say okay, but I’m not sure I’m going to stay shut up here all day.

“When do you get back?”

She looks at her watch. (I know what that is, too.) She doesn’t notice I don’t have one.

She says, “Three thirty, thereabouts.”

Pretty soon everything gets very quiet. All the cars and all the children are gone. I’m tired of hunching over. I’m not going to stay in here, but I’m a little scared about just walking right out. Then I think about Molly’s back window. I cross the lawn (by now the laundry’s brought in) and climb in Molly’s window.

Here’s a nice place! Pale yellow walls, an all-white, really, really soft bed (I try it), a not-so-worn-out stuffed dog on the pillows (even fuzzier than the one in the little house), and a wonderful lot of books. Must be twenty or so on a nice little shelf. I recognize schoolwork things. There’s a notebook exactly like Mother has for me.

Time goes faster than I thought it would. I spend a lot of it looking at the books, but then I get hungry. I find the kitchen. The refrigerator! In there it’s like winter. I eat a lot of things that I don’t know what they are. I’ve heard of cheese. Besides, I can read the labels: cold cuts, cheddar, cottage cheese. I taste everything. There’s radishes. I’m glad Mother saw to it that I knew about these things. I think she was homesick for all this, so she talked about it. Actually she talked about a lot more than I wanted to hear — then, anyway. Talk about not listening! It’s a wonder I even remember radishes.

I wander around the whole house. Turns out they have lots of books. And all over the place. I start reading several of them, one after the other, bits and pieces of all sorts of things. Magazines, too. I’ve been missing a lot. Mother knew it. She tried to make it up to me. When I see all this I realize how hard she worked at it. I start feeling tearful. I wonder where she is and if she’s all right.

Their clocks already say after two. I think I’d better go back into that little house.

I bring some books and magazines, but I don’t read them. I start thinking about dads. I know enough to know I must have had one. I haven’t thought much about it. I thought the way Mother and I lived was the usual way. Like bear cubs and fawns, always a mother and a child or two. And here’s a dad living right with them. Out of the little windows, I saw whole families leaving all together. The dads were living right there with everybody.

There’s a lot Mother told me, but a lot she didn’t. I’d ask her, Where is my dad? Who was he? And, especially, how hairy?

I must have fallen asleep by mistake because Molly wakes me.

“Come quick,” she says, “before my parents come home. We’ll look you up on the Web. If Mother comes in. she always knocks first. you just scoot under the bed.”

“Scoot?”

So then I get my first lesson in computer stuff. We look all over the place, but not a one looks at all like me. They’re all chunky and have terrible faces.

Molly says, “You’re much nicer looking than any of these. I like your hair color. There’s a lot of gold in it.”

I’m glad she said that, but it worries me that one of these might be my dad. How could Mother have even gotten close to somebody like that? I hope at least he was a nice person. if I can think of him as a person.

I ask Molly, “You have a dad. What’s that like?”

“Oh, he’s okay. He thinks I’m a kid, though. I’ll be forty-five before he’ll think I’m grown up. Don’t you have your dad? Well, you don’t or you’d already know what he looks like.”

I’m thinking, looks aren’t everything. Molly’s father might not be so handsome either. But that’s too much to hope for. And, anyway, why would I hope for that? That isn’t nice.

Then I remember about cars and trucks. I ask Molly if she can take me for a ride in a truck.

“Truck! Of course not. We don’t have a truck. But I could take you in our car — after everybody’s gone to bed. I don’t have a license, but I do know how to drive. Dad already taught me. You’re not supposed to drive until you’re sixteen. I don’t know why they make you wait so long.”

I go to the little house before her mother comes back. Molly loads me up with cookies and milk (I never had milk before), just in case she has a hard time bringing me a supper.

“Don’t light the candle until all our lights are out here in the house.”

Finally she comes to get me.

She brings me a big floppy hat, one of her father’s white shirts, pants, socks, and sandals. The sandals are terribly uncomfortable.

She says, “I guess you really are a Bigfoot.”

I must look hurt because right away she says, “Sorry, that was supposed to be a joke. Not a very kind one. Look.” She puts her foot next to mine. “We’re almost the same size.” Then, “You don’t have to wear the sandals. I don’t suppose anybody will see your feet anyway.”

She tells me to button up the shirt and raise the collar to cover my neck as much as I can.

If I need all these clothes and to button up just to go for a ride in a car, I guess I really am entirely wrong.

Even just getting in the car is exciting.

Then it jerks forward.

“Sorry. I haven’t driven very much. But this will be good practice. Better put on your seat belt.”

We drive, and it’s wonderful. We go out in the country so we can go fast. She says in town we can only go twenty-five. We open the windows and get the breeze.

She says, “I’ll go even faster if you stop saying ‘Thank you’ all the time.”

I stop and she does.

She turns on the radio, which is another new thing — not that I haven’t heard all about it. She pushes buttons to get the right music. She says, “Dad has it on news all the time.” I wouldn’t have minded hearing news.

We start around a curve and all of a sudden we’re in the ditch. Then bouncing up and down, and then upside down.

We’re not hurt, but the front doors won’t open. Molly finally gets a back door open, and we crawl out.

She doesn’t look like Molly anymore. She looks scared and like she doesn’t know what to do.

She says, “I don’t even have my cell phone.”

It’s still the middle of the night. There’s not a light in sight. She starts to cry. I feel like I’m the strongest one now. I say, “Come on. Let’s start back to town.”

“I wish I hadn’t gone so fast. We wouldn’t be so far away if I hadn’t done seventy. Daddy’s going to kill me.”

“Your dad will kill you?”

“No, silly, of course not. Don’t you know anything?” Getting angry at me makes her feel better. She starts walking down the road in the dark and trips and falls flat. And then she’s crying again.

My eyes must be better than hers. I can see a little bit. There’s the sliver of a moon. I say, “We’ll be all right. Hang on to me.”

Pretty soon it starts getting light and we see a farmhouse and head for that.

“I’ll go in and telephone Dad. You have to hide. Don’t let anybody see you.”

The more she says things like that, the more I worry about myself.

“What will Daddy do? And we don’t even have a car now. And what will we do with you?”

“I don’t want to be put in the zoo.”

“Look, there’s a barn. Go hide there while I go in.”

In the barn there’s stalls, mostly empty, but there are two horses at the back. There’s a ladder up to a loft full of hay. That’s where I’ll go, but I’ve never seen horses — except in picture books. I check on them first. I worry they might kick or bite, but they come right up to me to see who I am, friendly as can be. It makes me feel better, stroking something big and warm. Then I go up and lie down in the hay.

It takes so long for Molly to come back I think maybe she’s just left me here. I’m too shaken up to sleep. I go down again and talk to the horses. I get right in with them. I call one Spotty and the other Brownie.

Finally Molly comes.

“I couldn’t get away from the people here. They’re too nice. They were going to drive me home, since they had to go to town anyway, but I said I needed to call Daddy. They went off to town. I know their kid. He’s a couple of grades ahead of me in school. He’s still here. He takes the school bus. Daddy’s renting a car. He’ll be here as soon as he can, but it’ll take a while. I didn’t tell him about you. What’ll we do about you?”

I don’t say anything. What do I know?

But suddenly here’s the boy. First he says, “What are you doing out here?” And then he sees me and gasps.

I’m still dressed, head to toe. to almost toe, but even so I’m too much for him.

“What are you?”

I say, “Bigfoot.”

Right away he looks at my feet. Then he laughs. And we all laugh.

He says, “I don’t believe in you.”

I say, “Nobody does.”

And we laugh all the more.

He decides not to go to school — after all, Molly isn’t going either — and invites us in for breakfast.

He keeps staring at me as he cooks us pancakes. And he keeps spilling things.

He says, “You’re a nice color,” and, “I didn’t think a Bigfoot would be so attractive,” and, “You have nice eyes,” until I’m a little worried. Though he could be trying to make me feel good about myself. I suppose I should appreciate it.

He says, “I don’t think you should go back with Molly. I think you should stay here where you have a nice barn to hide in.”

Molly looks relieved.

I’d really rather be back in her little playhouse, but I don’t know how we can get me there.

Then he says, “We could go horseback riding,” and I think, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad here. I’m learning so many new things. Including rolling over in a car. Horses would be nice.

Molly’s father comes by in a rented car. He barely stops, honks, opens the door, and yells. I guess he’s really angry. She looks at us, scared, then rushes out. There’s no way I could have gone with her even if I’d wanted to.

The boy’s name is Buck. He changed his name, too. I didn’t know everybody could do that. He used to be Judson. He says, “Judd isn’t so bad but I like Buck better.”

He goes to put on his riding clothes. He has the whole outfit, cowboy hat and boots and all. I’ve seen pictures. I think he’s trying to impress me. And maybe himself. He does look as if he likes himself a lot in these clothes.

He brings a bag of stuff for a picnic, and we go out and saddle up. First he has to brush the horses so there’s no dust and stuff under the saddle. He shows me how, and I help.

I feel funny, getting up on something I just talked to and

petted, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

Buck heads us up into the hills and pretty soon we’re in the trees. He makes us canter even though he can see I’m bouncing and hurting. Trotting isn’t much better. He doesn’t say a word about what to do. It looks as if he likes to see me not knowing how to do it. He’s got this funny little smile all the time. He’s laughing at me.

We get to a nice shady spot and get off and tie up. He spreads out a blanket, he says, for our picnic.

He takes off half his fancy cowboy outfit. And then he takes off even more. Is this what people do?

But I start to know what this is all about. I remember things Mother warned me could happen. I wasn’t listening, but some of it must have gotten through.

He’s a lot taller than I am and stronger, too. He tears Molly’s father’s shirt practically in two. I have to really fight and I’m losing.

Finally I grab a stone and knock him away.

He says, “What difference does it make? You’re just an animal. Why should you care?”

“I’m not an animal, or if I am, I’m only half. My mother was your kind.”

He comes after me again but I run. uphill. I’m thinking of getting back to our cabin and maybe finding out what happened to Mother.

I’m way faster than he is. I guess from all my hiking around the mountains. Pretty soon he gives up. From way above I see him put on his costume, mount up, and ride away, leading the other horse.

I sit down and catch my breath. I feel like crying, but I’m angry, too. Molly didn’t think I was an animal. Or am I? I wish I was back with her.

I’m glad that, up in the mountains, it’s always just mothers and children off by themselves. I was thinking I wanted to meet my father someday, but now I’m not sure. And he’d be more of an animal than I am. Though if Mother liked him he couldn’t be that bad. Or maybe she didn’t like him. Maybe she couldn’t fight him off.

And then I think how Mother’s little book is in the pocket of my shorts back in the little house. I have to get back there.

I walked there once before, I guess I can walk there again. I’m going to stay in the foothills and walk mostly at night. I’m pretty well covered up with Molly’s dad’s shirt, even though it’s torn and has lost some buttons, and the slacks are okay. I don’t have the hat anymore.

I wonder what Molly is expecting to do about me. She might try to come and get me. For sure not driving a car. I wonder what she’ll do when she finds out I’m gone. I wonder if she knows about how Buck is. Except maybe he’s only that way with somebody who’s an animal.

I’m too impatient to wait for dark. I start heading back toward the town, but I keep well away from any roads or houses. I suppose it’s pretty far, considering how fast Molly was driving. I don’t even know the name of the town, but it has a special smell. I’d recognize it right away.

Later, when I come to a river and a nice pile of brush next to it, and berries, I decide to rest there until dark.

Except I can’t rest. I’m too angry and upset. I need to talk to Molly. I keep on across the rocky foothills.

I should have stayed and rested.

At first I think they’re wolves, but then I see it’s a pack of all sorts of dogs. I climb a juniper. They’re making a terrible racket.

Practically right away, here comes a man with a rifle. He shoots toward the dogs, and they run off. Then he comes to see what they’ve treed. He stares. Walks all around the tree to look at me from every angle. The shirt and slacks don’t hide that much. My Bigfoot-big-bare-fuzzy-feet are just above his head.

He isn’t dressed like Buck, though he is wearing a cowboy hat. He has a bushy mustache that’s mostly gray. He’s a lot older than Buck. I don’t know if that’s good or bad. He might, all the quicker, take off his clothes and grab me. Is he going to climb the tree and pull me down and then try to do what Buck tried?

“Can you talk?”

Why does everybody ask me that? Do I look so animal? I guess I do.

“Of course I can.”

And I climb a little higher.

“Don’t be scared. I won’t hurt you. I won’t. I promise. Are you hungry?”

Yeah, lure the animal down with a little bite of food.

He sits under the tree and takes off his hat. He’s got a very high forehead. I’ve seen pictures of that. That’s being bald. Maybe when I’m older I could get bald all over.

He takes out an apple and a sandwich and begins to eat. He’s in no hurry. As he eats, he keeps looking up at me and shaking his head, as if, like Buck, he doesn’t believe in me.

“I’ve heard tell of your kind, but I’ve never seen one. Where did you come from, anyway?”

I don’t know what to say.

“Do you have a name?”

What does he think I am? Well, I know what he thinks.

“Of course I do.”

“Mine’s Hiram. People call me Hi.”

“Mine’s Sabine.”

“I never knew a Sabine. Is that from your people?”

“My people?”

“Your kind of. Whatever you. ”

I never thought about being “a kind.” Was he going to say, your kind of animal?

For a minute we just look out at the view of the fields far below us with the sprinkling of black cows, both of us as if embarrassed. Then he says, “You might as well come down. You’ll have to one of these days. It might as well be now as later. When I leave those dogs might come back. You can have half my sandwich and this apple.”

He’s right, I might as well come down, so I do.

I take the sandwich and sit a couple of yards away. I hope I’m not eating like an animal or sitting like an animal. I sit as he’s sitting. I’m hungry, but I slow down. I try to keep the torn shirt shut as best I can.

He leaves his clothes on all that time, and afterward we just sit quietly. I’m thinking maybe I should ask about men taking their clothes off, but then I think I’d better not. Even if he is a man, maybe he can help me get back to the town.

He keeps looking me up and down. He just can’t stop. Then he says, “Sorry, I shouldn’t stare. I’d like to take a picture of you. Of course nobody will believe it. They’ll think I made it up on the computer.”

“Can you drive a car? I’m trying to get back to the town. I’ll let you take my picture if you help me get back. It would have to be at night. And I only need to go to the edge. And if you could lend me a hat, I’d try to get it back to you.”

He takes me down to his house. I won’t go in. I don’t care if he thinks I’m a scared animal, I just won’t, and I am a scared animal. He gets his camera and takes a lot of pictures, all different views. I’m worried about it because Molly said I should hide, and this sure isn’t hiding, but this is the only way I know of to get back to her. If he’s going to bother helping me, I have to do something for him.

Then we wait till the middle of the night. I apologize for keeping him up.

He never once takes his clothes off. Maybe all men don’t do that. I’ll have to ask Molly. She said everything is on the computer. If she doesn’t know, we can look it up.

He makes me supper. A kind of stew with everything in it. He says it’s called slumgullion. He says it’s kind of a guy thing. He serves it outside on his picnic table so I won’t need to go in. I’m beginning to think I shouldn’t be so scared. I wonder if my father is as nice.

He sits down to eat across from me.

“You’ve had a bad experience, haven’t you. Or are you just scared of all of us?”

“I like Molly. That’s where I want to get back to. But I had a bad experience with Buck. He took his clothes off and grabbed me.”

Then I tell him all about Molly and the car rolling over and about Buck. I tell him, “You don’t seem like him.”

“I’m not. And when any man takes his clothes off, you take care. I have a daughter about your age. I live by myself, except my daughter comes here for the summer. If I show those pictures I took of you around, you’re in trouble. Everybody will be after you. They’ll chase you wherever you try to hide. You ought to go back up into the hills and let yourself be a legend like the rest of your people are. I’ll hang on to these pictures until you get well away.”

“But I don’t know my people. I’ve never met my father. My mother’s one of your kind. Molly wanted to shave me all over with her dad’s electric razor. Do you think that would work?”

“Not a good idea. You’d prickle. Nobody could get near you. Here, feel my cheeks. I haven’t shaved since yesterday.”

I reach across the table and feel them.

“You sure you don’t want me to take you up into the mountains far as I can drive and drop you off? I’ll give you a knapsack and water bottle and food for a couple of days. That would be best for you.”

“I’d like to see Molly first. Besides, I left Mother’s book there.”

He gets me a shirt of his that isn’t torn. It’s dark green. Better for hiding in than this white one.

We spend time looking up at the stars. He knows the names of everything up there. I tell him my mother did, too. Then we have coffee, though he doesn’t let me have much. He says if I’m not used to it it’ll make me jittery. And then we go — in his rickety old truck. He gives me a stained old cowboy hat. He says it may not look so good but it’s beaver so it’s waterproof.

He drops me off at the edge of town like I want him to. I think I can smell my way back to Molly’s house, but not if I’m in the truck.

When he lets me off he says, “You know I’ll not use those photos. Better you folks stay a myth. And you better hurry back in the hills. That’s where you belong.”

I’m glad I met him after Buck. I was ready to never get near a man again.

It doesn’t take me long to find Molly’s place. I kept pretty good track of where I was. I always know where I am when there are trees and rocks, but I knew I’d have trouble finding my way with all these streets and houses.

I go right back to the playhouse and settle in to get some sleep for what there is left of the night. The pillow and blanket aren’t there anymore, but I take the old dog doll for a pillow. Hi’s shirt will keep me warm.

But first I find my shorts just where I hid them, and Mother’s book is still in the pocket.

I want to let Molly know I’m here, but I don’t want to wake her up in the middle of the night. But then I oversleep. Everybody in the house has gone off just like before. I wonder if Molly tried to find me at Buck’s and if Buck tried. that with her? But I suppose not. I’m the one who doesn’t count. But I don’t see what difference it makes. Animal or not, I shouldn’t have to get forced into doing something I don’t want to. Hi didn’t think so, either.

So then I have to wait around for Molly to come back. I sneak in and get myself some food. I snoop around again. I wish I knew how to use the computer. I don’t dare try without Molly. She said you could learn about everything there.

I grab some books and go back. I start reading and don’t even notice when Molly comes home. When I realize she must be back, I go look in her window. There she is, on the bed with a magazine. I tap on the window. She gives a shriek when she sees me. It’s good nobody else is home. She opens the window and hugs me. She climbs out, and we go back to the playhouse.

She says, “I was so worried, and I didn’t know how to come and get you back, and Daddy won’t let me go anywhere now that I ruined our car. I’m going to have to stay home for months and I have to do chores to help pay for the new car.” She starts to cry.

I don’t know what to do. Mother would have held me, but that’s different. At least I think it is. Finally I reach out and pat her shoulder. That seems to be all right. She does stop.

I ask, “Is it all my fault? You were driving for me.”

“Of course not. I know it’s my fault. I don’t even have a license. Daddy says I have to take the consequences.”

“Can I help?”

“I don’t know. Maybe keep me company, now that I have to stay home every single night there is.”

“I’ll do it. Besides, I want to learn more things on the computer. About men.” Then I tell her what Buck tried to do.

She gets really mad and tells me not every boy would be that way, and she is never going to speak to him again, and she’s going to tell all her friends to watch out for him.

“Yes, but I’m an animal.”

“You’re a girl. Anybody with any sense can see that.”

“Thank you.”

“I like your looks.”

I feel like crying, too, but one of us in tears at a time is enough.

“Actually, in your own way, you’re quite decent-looking.” In my way.

“Maybe there’s some kind of medicine you can take that would make all your hair fall out. I’ll bet there is. These days there’s something for everything. I’ll go online and look it up.”

I don’t trust Molly anymore. She doesn’t know as much as she thinks she does. I don’t want to take some pill that will make my hair fall out.

I don’t tell her, but, even though I owe it to her, I’m not sure I want to stay here much longer. Maybe just look up some more things on the computer. Get her to print some pictures of my possible fathers. I don’t belong down here. Hi said so, too. And I miss the mountains. Mother said I was made for them. I was always warm enough up there, even my feet. Mother’s feet were always cold. What if she’s back there by now? Though I know I shouldn’t get my hopes up.

Next day Molly pretends to go to school and then comes home. She’s going to go back to school for her dad to pick her up. I guess her dad can’t keep tabs on her all the time.

(Here I am wishing I could go to school and she can and doesn’t do it.)

So we print out all the pictures of Sasquatch, and Yeti, and Bigfoot. None of them look very nice. I like having their pictures, though. I fold them up and button them in the pocket of the shirt Hi gave me.

The next day Molly does go to school. She says she can’t afford to miss too much. She’s not doing very well in French (French! I wonder if I could ever get to take that) and math. She says her dad is already angry enough without her failing two subjects. So I have the whole place to myself again.

I go to the house and bring back food and books, but then I think I should be reading that little book of Mother’s. Maybe I can find out why she went with such an odd. creature. I almost thought “person,” but I’m not sure if either my father or I can be called a person.

I pry open the lock on Mother’s little leather book and there, right on the first page in big letters, she’d written:

And underneath that:

Then there’s a break and the start of a new page.

Should I stop reading and keep this until I’m older? Besides, I haven’t even met anybody to be in love with. Or maybe I can read it twice, now, and then again later.

Oh, my God. What have I done!

I didn’t realize how important it is for me to be a secret. Me just being down here is a danger to all of them. I should say, all of us. And now Hi and Buck and Molly know about me. Hi said he wouldn’t show the pictures, but I’ll bet Buck will tell about me. He can’t prove it, though. At least I hope not.

And all of a sudden I want to find my kind so much I can’t stand to sit here one minute more. I have to get back. But I already roamed all over the place and none of them came to me and I never saw a single sign of them.

Though there are several more pages in the book, Mother only wrote a phrase here and there, as if she was going to go back and fill them in. One just has: Today Growen died. Maybe she felt too sad to go on except with these little notes.

I put on my shorts and T-shirt, and on top of that Hi’s green shirt, and then his wonderful waterproof hat. I don’t take anything of Molly’s, not even cookies. Except I wonder if she’d mind if I took her social studies book. I like the idea of all these different kinds and colors of people, even though nobody in it has hair all over. Besides, I don’t think Molly cares anything about social studies.

It doesn’t fit in Hi’s big pockets, though Mother’s book does. I’ll have to carry it separately. I’ll pick up one of those plastic bags that keep blowing around everywhere.

I feel bad that I’m not going to say good-bye. Molly got in a lot of trouble because of me. I ought to stay and help, but I’m not going to.

I’m going to find my people if it takes falling off a cliff and lying there with a broken leg.

But what if I don’t belong with them either? What if I don’t belong anywhere?

I follow the signs I left for Mother so she could follow me. I find my way back to our cabin, no problem. There’s quite a bit of snow. It’s getting too cold for most of the regular people to be in the mountains. I only have to avoid a few.

I get excited when I get close. Maybe Mother is waiting for me.

The cabin door is open. She must be there.

But then I get worried. Maybe somebody broke in. Maybe somebody like Buck, not like Hi.

I back away and hide.

And then a beautiful creature comes out, looks up and sniffs. He probably can smell even better than I can. I’ll bet he knows I’m hiding here.

He’s a tawny golden color — all over. He has a wide forehead, a lionlike look. No wonder Mother fell in love. His face is bare, like mine. I can’t believe how beautiful he is, and I’m pretty much just exactly like him.

He’s wearing a fisherman’s vest with all the pockets bulging. And he has a belt with all sorts of things hanging from it.

“Sabine? Binny?”

He knows me. Do I dare show myself?

His voice is deep and kind of whispery — breathy.

“I’m your uncle, Greener. Come on out.”

I don’t.

“Your mother. I’m sorry. She. We found her not far from Rock Creek. Come on out. Let me tell you face-to-face.”

So it’s true. What I suspected. But I can’t come out.

He sits down and turns away so his back is toward my hiding place. A broad, strong, golden back.

“I’ve come to take you home. You’ll like it. Your Aunt Sabby is there. You’re named for her, you know.”

I can’t come out.

“We have a pet fox. We’ve got jays that eat out of your hand.”

I can’t.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get here soon enough — before you went down. I hope you didn’t have a bad time there.”

I don’t come.

“Come on out. I’ll teach you how to hide. I’ll teach you how to sneak away without making a sound. I’ll teach you our whistle language. Come on. I’ll take you home.”

I’m glad I have Hi’s big black hat. I pull it low over my eyes and I come.

CAROL EMSHWILLER grew up in Michigan and in France and currently divides her time between New York and California. She is the winner of two Nebula Awards, for her stories “Creature” and “I Live with You.” She has also won the Lifetime Achievement award from the World Fantasy Convention.

She’s been the recipient of a National Endowment for the Arts grant and two New York State grants. Her short fiction has been published in many literary and science fiction magazines. Her most recent books are the novels Mr. Bootsand The Secret Cityand the collection I Live with You. Her Web site is www.sfwa.org/members/emshwiller

I’ve always liked the idea of a child growing up in the forest. half-wild or all-wild. I had the first few paragraphs of this story written before Ellen asked me if I’d write something for The Beastly Bride. Usually I can’t write “on demand,” but this was already started, and I thought it might fit.

I didn’t know then that my girl would be fuzzy and have a Sasquatch/Bigfoot father. Those elements entered the story because Ellen and Terri’s description of their anthology seemed to ask for them. I had thought of a wild child, but one just like us. It was because of Ellen that Sabine turned out as she did, and I’m so glad that happened! I love my beautiful fuzzy people. I think the story is much more interesting than it would have been if Ellen hadn’t asked for “Beastly.”