Cryptid Blues
Written by Lisa Barcy & George Prince
Installation by Erin Cramer
I was picking a piece of viscera out of my teeth with a thin shard of femur when I received a communication from a littermate, one I long assumed had either trudged off to Alaska with the grizzlies or finally fallen into a ravine as dinner for the coyotes.
I had stepped out of my burrow to retrieve some leftovers, and there the message was, etched into a large rock with her blackened claw. No word for years from my lone sister, and here she was writing just to gloat.
Our litter had been seven, or maybe eight. I remember the sense of relief when our brothers left us, abandoning their fight for dominance of a particular tree that was in fact mine. They picked up the scent of potential mates in the mountains and were not seen again.
Here my sister scrawled, “How are things? How’s the mange?”
On another round stone that I had to pick up to read, she wrote, “Did you ever finish that trio who claimed to be on silent retreat? Boy they sure broke that vow fast!”
My sister knows damn well I only ate two, but she always has nagged me about stress-eating and how I could stand to lose a bit around the middle.
As if in defiance, I was gnawing absent-mindedly on a finger, and bit into a ring. The metallic shock as I grabbed my jaw made me drop the rock, which landed directly on my foot. Already agitated beyond mere grunts and growls, I spat the ring out, picked up the rock, and kept reading.
My sister did in fact fall into the ravine, but was rescued by a lone rock climber. Her first grateful instinct was to spare him by only eating a single leg, but after a lot of pitiful idiotic blubbering he managed to convince her there was a better life awaiting her in “Las Vaygus”.
All she had to do was pretend to enjoy wearing clothing festooned with shiny bits and move about to catchy music without dragging her knuckles. It all sounded like entirely too much effort to me.
“It’s the best!” she continued onto an adjacent rock face. “Two shows daily and the rest of the time I can spend climbing trees and terrorizing rabbits in his enormous enclosure. There are a couple big cats here too and we get on rather well. We’re thinking about collaborating on a new project blah blah blah...”
On and on she scrawled until she ran out of room and signed off by asking if I was still living in a burrow.
I hurled the round rock into the ravine as far as I could, and amidst the clattering of loosened rocks and loosened dirt I thought I heard a faint cry, like the turkey vultures were arguing again.
I decided I needed a walk and limped through the trees past the clearing. The night was cool, and there was a slight breeze coming from the lake.
The lake. To be honest I’m tired of it. I’m certain humans dug this one; it’s simply too round to be interesting, except for the occasional capsizing of a rowboat full of Boy Scouts. Alas, I could never actually eat one of them for fear of arousing suspicion, and I know they are so very tender.
The price of my caution has been nothing to eat except squirrel for the last three years. I’m sick to death of squirrel, and the little beasts know it; having lost all fear they harass me at every turn. The thought of biting their heads off makes me ill; if I disappeared from this forest forever, I would miss them the least.
I arrive at the lake and dip my throbbing foot in the cold water. A tick has bitten me, though they usually just hitch a ride to the nearest buck or doe and leave me alone.
“Look”, I shout, pulling it out, “if you can’t keep your mandibles or proboscis or whatever to yourself, then take a hike. There’s a drum circle of unwashed humans in the campground, and you’re welcome to them.”
Now I am ready for something new, and I can’t say what. I limp over towards where I had heard the cry, and then I see: a woman is lying in the tall grass with a rock-sized dent in her head, emitting a barely audible groan.
I hate waste, and thirst overcomes me so rapidly I sink my fangs into the jugular, ending her suffering with my satisfaction. Then I notice something in her face that triggers a feeling, the kind my species typically reserves for our own kind.
Embarrassed to have fallen into this strange affection so easily, I find myself doing the unthinkable; I go through her pockets. I find a stretchy circular band, a small rectangle with the markings “Carol Jeffries - Certified Public Accountant”, and a large, folded sheet of paper that I gather is a schematic of the surrounding area.
Then I remove her shoes and am surprised to find them quite comfortable on my feet. Why shouldn’t I take them? It’s not like she needs them anymore.
Two connected round pieces cover her eyes. I tug them off and slide them onto my face. Having seen these before, I had never realized they had a purpose. Is this how everything is supposed to look?
I look at the large paper and can make out the markings on it without holding it up to my face. Before now I have not given them enough credit, had never considered this level of ingenuity.
I need to fully commit. No more curious poking of the carcass. Here is opportunity slapping me in the face. I slowly work off her top layers, then the bottom, and wiggle into them. In her sack I find a sharp object that explains her species lack of fur. They were removing it on purpose. Bizarre. But now I am all in, and I do the same. Four hours later, gazing at my reflection in the water I see the resemblance and the reason for my unexpected feelings. I kneel beside her and whisper in her ear, “I’ll take it from here, Carol.”