The Spirit

“Isn’t everybody?” Jason looked over the counters, uncertain about how to get her to talk without sounding like a private eye.

“The real nuts all went home already,” said the woman. “Some folks say it tried to rape some woman down on Route Nine.”

“People are crazy,” murmured Jason.

“Well, it was down at George Fraser’s apple orchard,” she protested. “George found his trees stripped about an hour ago. Good thing the nuts are gone, or they’d all be down there too.”

Jason laughed politely. “Where’s this orchard?”

“It’s about four miles down that way.” She pointed down the highway toward the trailer park. “He run through the woods after he got to the park and spent the night eating there. They say.”

“How can anybody be scared of a gorilla that eats apples?” Jason laughed with an effort.

“The things that happen in this county. There was an Indian in here yesterday morning . . .”

It came down on Jason’s head so fast that he could barely coordinate moving the mustard and the sandwich meat on the counter.

“. . . scariest man I ever laid eyes on. He weighed about twenty pounds, and every ounce was plain meanness.”

“No kidding.”

“Had an Army jacket and a mangy little dog. Bet his pockets were full of razor blades. He was on the run, if you ask me.”

“What from, I wonder.” Jason opened a bag of potato chips and shoved several into his mouth. He had forgotten the dog until now. So it belonged to the Indian after all. He had wondered if it was wild or not.

“He said he was from Stevensville, Montana. That’s up at the Flathead reservation, you know?” She counted up the food and rang the prices on the register. ‘That’s fifteen seventy-­five with tax. Going camping?” Jason had bought a carton of food and sandwiches.

“I might. Your sign says you sell bullets. Do you have any three fifty-­seven Magnum shells?”

“Nope. All the Bigfoot nuts bought them.” The woman shuddered. “Try Springer’s, in town.”

4

The Indian had awakened before dawn that morning. He wanted to get clear of the orchard as quickly as possible. A pink line separated the night from the eastern horizon as he munched an apple from the trees.

The dog tried to follow him to the road, but he threw an apple at it. “Fuck you!” The dog barked furiously, trying to get him back to the orchard.

The Indian found a road sign pointing out directions to Spokane, Seattle, and a host of small towns unknown to him. He was vaguely interested to learn he was in Washington. Very vaguely. He had no friends out here, and had never been to Washington in his life. Glumly he trudged down the highway, watching sunlight fill the air.

The dog was extremely upset by this change in routine. It was not bold enough to approach the Indian and not smart enough to leave. It dogged the Indian’s footsteps, yapping in outrage, dodging rocks thrown at it.

The Indian skewered a rabbit dashing across the road with an arrow, then took it into the trees to skin and roast it. The dog wagged its tail, expecting a piece for the spirit. Instead, the Indian ate the entire animal with deliberate thoroughness and threw bones at the dog. When he washed his hands in a stream and headed back for the road, the dog unleashed a thunderstorm of barks.

“I know he’s sleeping!” the Indian roared. “I don’t care if he don’t wake up.”

By seven the sun was high. The cold night was turning into a reasonably warm day. The dog became hysterical, walking in circles, making little jumps in place, rolling on the ground. The spirit was being left far behind. The road was a twisty ribbon that crossed streams. Finally the Indian rained rocks at the animal, with such ferocity that the dog ran yelping into the woods.

And did not come out.

Good, the Indian thought to himself.

The Indian had hoped his disillusionment would give him a sense of freedom. Instead, he was more tired than he had been on the entire futile quest. He still felt the heavy presence of the spirit, and it was not pleasurable any more, rather like an unwelcome intruder watching him.

Produce trucks hurrying food to market appeared on the road. They sped up at sight of him.

By noon he had realized that no intelligent driver was going to endanger his life by picking up a skinny, filthy Indian with a bow and arrow, so he left the road and did some more hunting. He bagged three quail in a field, and another rabbit. For once he had the food all to himself, and it was a veritable feast that filled his belly and beyond. The heavy fatigue turned his limbs to iron.

He found a patch of firs where he could lie down. The sunlight hurt his night-­sharpened eyes, causing a headache. He decided it was not a good idea to change his sleeping schedule so abruptly, so he decided to do some tramping that night.