by The Eurostar
Edulcore Cicciotto:
Last night, I had another strange dream. The dark dwarf, the being that so often comes to visit my dreams, arrived, took me by his hand, and brought me outside the tent. There, he began to fly, and I was up with him. Then he disappeared, and I was falling, until I noticed that I had wings, and that I was flying by myself.
That wouldn't be really strange, I had at least a similar dream before. Or was it reality? It was when I discovered I was able to leave my elemental body. But this begs the question: is the dark dwarf a product of my imagination, or is it real?
The unexpected thing was when I woke up, because in the sleeping bag I found a feather.
An eagle feather, said Frank Line, but of a species not American. He was marveling at how it could have been there, but I wasn't able to give him an explanation.
We left the ornithologist's camp early in the morning. Now it's four hours we have been walking. We have gotten to the other side of the mountain, and now we are coming down, toward the city.
Just before we left, Frank Line, clearly embarrassed, told us to be very careful descending the mountain.
When we asked why, what could have been there so dangerous, he said only one word: "Bigfoot."
Turner began to laugh in an uncontrollable manner; Line was deadly serious, and I was staring at both of them without understanding.
Then Turner grimaced, and looking at me, said, "American Yeti. Abominable Snowman! Blah blah blah!"
"When local people told me about its presence here, I said the same. But then he destroyed my first camp. I haven't actually seen him. It was a moonless night, but the footprints all over the place were quite telling," said Line.
"Bah. If we'll meet him, I know how to take care of him," said Turner, still laughing. It was a closing sentence, and he departed, followed closely by me. After a few steps, I turned back to see Line still shaking his head.
Now, we are walking across another piece of virgin boreal pluvial forest, with spruce taller than seventy meters.
The ground is a carpet of mosses, very wet from yesterday rain.
Every once in awhile, I spot wildlife. A woodpecker hitting a trunk, the steady flight of a goshawk.
I flip through the pages of Quantos' field guide to give a name to every bird I see. Turner makes jokes at me for this. I don't care.
There is something else than the birds, though. It's something that blurs from one tree to the next. It's always in the remote corner of my eye, and when I turn to see it clearly, it's gone.
It's nearly three hours that I am experiencing this.
"Someone is following us. And it's not a bigfoot," says Turner.
"So I am not seeing things," I say. "It's three hours that I see something behind us."
Turner looks at me, impressed. He had probably noticed sometime since then. He is looking around, trying to find some evidence in the growing dense mist, that raises from the ground.
"Are you sure it's not the bigfoot?" I ask. I don't see why, in a world where demons pop up every few months or so, a bigfoot should be regarded as a childish thing.
"Bigfoot doesn't exist. It's a man, someone who's stalking us from the dark."