Cryptic Cryptid

The first thing I notice is that my goats are silent. They always greet me with a loud, bleating chorus when I enter the barn to check on them before bed, but not today. I could probably hear a pin drop. Very strange.

On edge, I scan the barn’s shadowy interior, hoping to identify the source of unusual quiet. My 13 goats all stand in a cluster, staring at me with calm, trusting eyes. Again, strange. They hardly ever shut up, let alone stand still like that. I say this with affection - I love my goats. My family has a modest organic farm that produces vegetables, eggs, wool, and goat dairy, and the goats have been my personal responsibility since I was a small child, when my parents decided to start our little herd and keep it in this small old barn behind our largest field. I care for the chickens in their coop and the alpacas and sheep in their larger barn as well, but I don’t know them the way I know my goats.

I have never seen my goats as serene as they are now, and it scares me.

A flickering movement in the corner opposite the goats catches my eye. Lantern held aloft, I take an uncertain step forward and strain to make out the unknown presence. Did I only imagine it? No, there it is again - a shift in the chasm of shadow beneath the loft. I feel a chilling swoop of fear in my stomach as I imagine an axe murderer or serial killer emerging from the dark with a sinister grin.

I am not expecting the towering, muscular being that emerges instead, covered in thick chestnut hair that lends him no small resemblance to Chewbacca. I swear, my heart stops. I know this visitor immediately, even though we have never met in person.

A Sasquatch, or a Bigfoot if that is your term of familiarity.

If my body wasn’t frozen with shock, I would pinch myself to test whether I’m dreaming. After all, I have dreamed of this for a long, long time.

You see, my family farm is located on the outskirts of Patterson, a small western Washington town that proclaims itself to be the Sasquatch sighting capital of the world. The general store and every shop on Main Street - heck, even the grocery store - sell Sasquatch memorabilia. The town visitor center offers Sasquatch sighting tours. Several local hunters and biologists lead determined tourists on Sasquatch hunts, complete with camera traps and thermal scanners. Patterson State University prides itself on housing the most comprehensive cryptozoology and folklore studies programs in the world, as well as the largest Sasquatch museum. And every summer, throngs of cryptid enthusiasts come for our annual Sasquatch Festival, which generates the best business of the year and encourages folks to go about in Bigfoot costume.

For most Patterson residents, this Sasquatch mania is a source of amusement or mild irritation, just a way to sustain the tourism that keeps our local economy afloat.

I’m different. I have been fascinated by the Sasquatch species for as long as I can remember, since I first gazed upon the Sasquatch that rambles through our town mural. Though I have gotten plenty of grief for it over the years, I have always maintained my belief in Sasquatch and my hope for an encounter. Growing up, I devoured every Bigfoot novel and cryptozoology book that I could get my hands on. Since age seven, I have regularly tuned into podcasts from far corners of the country to hear about the latest Sasquatch sightings and theories. When I started my bachelor’s three years ago at Patterson State, I immersed myself in the cryptozoology, folklore, and anthropology major with no second thought.

I can’t even explain why I am so drawn to Sasquatches. The closest I can come is to say that as someone who has always been introverted and more comfortable in the outdoors or around animals than around people, I both envy and relate to the mystery and recluse of the Sasquatch species. I am fascinated by the idea of living near people for a very long time without becoming known to them, preserving my peace and privacy in the wilderness and skillfully calling the shots of how and when I am seen, if ever.

Now, here I am, locking eyes with an individual who does all of these things.

Before I can say a word or make a move, I register that something is wrong. The Sasquatch is visibly trembling, and he, she, they - I really don’t know - cradles right arm in left as if trying to nurse a broken bone. I slowly set my lantern on the ground and take a tentative step closer, holding my empty hands out to show that I pose no threat. I can’t recall when exactly, but somewhere in my lifetime of Sasquatch research, I heard that someone else took this approach in their encounter with a Sasquatch. Time slows as the Sasquatch in turn comes closer. He (I have settled on “he” for now) looks at me with large green eyes the color of moss.

“I won’t hurt you,” I whisper.

I know.

I nearly jump out of my skin. The Sasquatch never opened his mouth, yet I heard that rough, hoarse voice in my head as clear as day.

Don’t worry. This is how I talk with your kind.

There it is again. Sasquatch is talking to me in my mind. Telepathic communication. My heart races with the realization. I have so many questions that I almost consider interviewing Sasquatch here and now. But then, I remember that he is hurt and likely very scared. My questions can wait.

“What happened to you, and what is your name?” I ask instead.

Hunters. You wouldn’t understand my true name, but you can call me Raff.

“Hunters did this to you?” I remember that last week, two Bigfoot hunters from out of state visited my cryptozoology research mentor, Professor Fern, to ask about recent Bigfoot sightings around Patterson. Unlike the tourists who jokingly hire local guides to lead them on Bigfoot hunts, the two hunters seemed very serious about tracking down and trapping a Sasquatch alive. I wonder if they are the ones who hurt Raff…

I didn’t see them. I was eating huckleberries in a clearing, but it was a trap - they must have coated the berries on the bush with poison. My mind and body became slow as I ate. Then the hunters got close, and they chased me into a ravine in the woods. I had to jump over the edge to get away.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, hating the hunters. I wrack my brain for ideas on what to do; I need to help Raff, but I don’t know how much I can do alone without exposing him to others. “What can I do to help?” I ask.

I’m sick from the poison and my arm is broken. My arm will heal itself in several hours if I can rest here, but I need antidote for the poison. Your Professor Fern has it in her office. She has helped me and my kind before. Will you help me now, and tell no one about me?

My mind reels. Not only can Raff communicate with me telepathically, but he has healing powers! And my mentor Professor Fern has met Raff too, possesses an antidote he needs… She must be helping to keep the Sasquatches' secret. In my three years of studying and researching with her, she has never mentioned her own Sasquatch encounters, and she has certainly never used them to support the Sasquatch social theories in her published works. I resolve to do the same, to help protect the Sasquatches’ privacy and guard their secrets. I care about Sasquatches too much - I always have - to risk their safety and way of life by sharing my encounter or any of what Raff has told me.

“Yes,” I say slowly, returning to Raff’s question. “And of course you can stay here, if you don’t mind the goats. Do you know where Professor keeps the antidote?”

In her office at school, top shelf.

I could marvel at the fact that he knows about her office, or that he even knew of my connection to Fern in the first place, but there is no time for that. I need to get Raff the antidote and safely out of the barn before the hunters come looking.

“I’ll be back soon.”

Raff nods and sinks to sitting position on the barn floor. As I leave the barn, I look back and see that he has shifted to rest against a bale of hay, and a couple of my goats have wandered over to nuzzle his legs.

The next few hours pass in a blur. I run through the field, grab my bike from the back porch, and take off down the road toward Patterson State, my bike light casting an eery glow on the pavement.

About halfway there, I slow down.

There is a large truck pulled over at roadside, Two tall men whom I recognize to be the hunters lean against the truck, peering at a map with a flashlight.

“Hey you,” one yells as I approach. “Have you heard anything about a Bigfoot around here earlier?”

“No!” I yell, pedaling faster as I pass them. “But I heard about commotion on the other side of town, some large animal at the farm by Arrowhead River!”

“Thanks!” The hunter shouts after me.

He and his companion pass me in their truck a minute later, apparently headed to Arrowhead Farm. I take a deep breath, praying that I just bought Raff more time.

I don’t slow until I pull in front of the Patterson State Anthropology building. Not even bothering to lock my bike, I whip out my keycard to rush into the building. Fern’s office is on the first floor, thank goodness. I grab my lab key from my pocket and gain access.

The office is small and lined with packed bookshelves that stretch from floor to ceiling. Any other free wall is crowded with elaborate maps and artistic renderings of Bigfoot. Using my phone as a flashlight, I scan the top shelves for any sign of antidote. My eyes settle on a small glass bottle that gleams on the top shelf behind the desk.

Heart drumming, I clamber onto the scuffed wooden desk and stand to reach the bottle. Sure enough, “ANTIDOTE, EMERGENCIES” is written on the label in bold letters. Stuffing the bottle into my hoodie pocket, I jump from the desk, lock up the office, and sprint out of the building to my bike.

I probably set a speed record riding home. When I finally reenter the barn, I cannot help but sigh in relief. Raff still leans against the hay. All 13 goats are silently gathered around him, several resting their heads on his outstretched legs.

“I have the antidote.” I stride over and hand Raff the bottle after unstoppering it.

Thank you.

Raff drinks the bottle’s purple contents in one great gulp. Within a minute, his shoulders and hurt arm relax, and he appears to fall asleep for awhile.

I sag to the barn floor and sit while he rests, the night’s events placing me in a stupor. Some time later - maybe ten minutes or maybe two hours - Raff’s mossy eyes flutter open.

I need to go now.

Surprisingly graceful, he rises to his feet, gently shaking off the goats and flexing his healed arm. I tuck the empty antidote bottle in my pocket and join him in heading for the forest behind the barn.

At tree line, Raff gives me one last look of thanks before he fades into the moonlit forest.

I have so many questions, but I say nothing. Some questions, I realize, should remain unanswered.