Here’s one passage:
Even in my estrangement from the friendlier aspects of humanity, in the Cascades I often knew a melancholy joy. One afternoon, I experienced it while seated on a boulder overlooking a creek picketed by trees and curtained on either side by leaf mulch and moss. The plangent gurgling of the water and the azure brilliance of the sky combined to inspirit me-to such a degree that I broke into one of the festival chants of the Oongpekmut.
I do not sing well. My voice has such a barbaric timbre that it may discomfit even me. On this afternoon, however, my chant poured forth like a nightingale’s warble. Although the birds themselves fell silent and insects ceased to chirr, I adjuged it as melodious as the nightingale’s-wrongly, of course. Two warriors stepped from the shrubbery beyond the streambed and shot at me with bows. Although the banal repetitiveness of man’s aggression towards me had become highly predictable, this attack took me by surprise. Would my author’s race always greet my appearance with hostility and violence? Europeans, Asians, Siberians, Anglo-Saxons-even Innuit unfamiliar to me-all reacted as if I posed a danger reauiring swift eradication. My attackers, whose arrows flew wide or rebounded from my granite throne, wore the dress of the Sahaptin group of North American Indians: Cayuse, Pahuse, or Wallawalla. I identified them by their vestments and, when they audibly conferred, by certain quirks of their Penutian-derived tongue.
As my shock quitted me, I struggled to my feet to expel a roar of warning and reproach. The leather-clad indigenes withdrew behind a wall of huckleberry bushes.
I roared again.
Fulminating thus, I leapt from my boulder into the verdant ground-cover only a short dash from their conference place. This tactic, advance rather than retreat, bemused and affrighted the warlike indigenes.
“Sasquatch!” one of them cried.
They fled, ripping through the foliage and calling out, as if to unseen confederates, “Sasquatch! Sasquatch!”
Thereafter, apprised anew of my seemingly irrevocable pariahhood, I again took care to avoid betraying my presence either to the natives of the region or to the disregardant Anglo-Saxon invaders. I nonetheless continued to reconnoiter the villages and towns of both groups. How often I heard the alien shibboleth “Sasquatch!” on their lips, uniting these foes in their fear and misapprehension of me. Thus, in my retreat from Oongpek and my subsequent stay in the Pacific Northwest, I became a legend, which had its origin and growth in a mortifying lie.
Henry came into our room a few minutes after I’d read this passage. He liked me copying his journal. Although he’d gone kayaking in front of the Elshtains, I seemed to be the only soul in Highbridge-or anywhere-who understood exactly what that kayak meant in the tangled weave of his life. Or, as he liked to call it, his second life.
To everyone else, Henry presented the kayak as a hobby, a sportman’s hobby, and they bought this explanation the way they bought Henry himself, as a one-in-a-million fella with a talent for ballplaying and a caboodle of crotchets. You ignored these last, though, because, on the ball field, he produced.
Henry, alias Jumbo, towered over Muscles, but he didn’t scrape eight feet, as his creator’d written in the account published anonymously by Mrs Shelley in 1818 and released thirteen years later with an introduction in which she claimed authorship herself. I mean, a galoot eight feet tall would scare anyone, especially, I thought, folks of a stature akin to, or even smaller than, my own. With that thought in mind, I got out my notebook and wrote:
Youre not as tall as Dr F. says he made you. Why not.
The surprise of the day-a bigger surprise than having Mister JayMac bench me-occurred just then. Henry began to tug on the shoulder straps of the Extra Large overalls he’d worn to dinner, and his overalls collected in a starchy blue-and-white puddle at his ankles.
I’d never seen Henry drop trou before; neither, so far as I knew, had anybody else on the Hellbenders. On road trips, when he and I shared a room, he vanished into the lavatory to change clothes or doused or draped off every glimmer of light. In McKissic House, in temperatures that’d’ve floored a camel, he slept in loose pajama bottoms and kept a sheet up to his chin. The modesty of Hank Clerval would’ve gotten high marks from a Baptist preacher’s missus.
Now, though, Henry stood there in baggy boxers, dingy white skivvies, polka dots in a Dalmatian scatter from hip to fly. He backed up, dragging his overalls, and sat on his bed facing me. He stuck out his oakish legs-gray, purple, yellow, beige, so many colors they reminded me of a fleshy quilt. Pale scars ran in puckered bands around his lower calves, a band to each leg. Had Henry once worn anklets of barbed wire as a scourge, the way monks’d worn hair shirts or bankers and car salesmen wear neck ties? I stared at Henry’s legs. No wonder he didn’t shower with us, no wonder he sometimes hobbled like a crip.
“My pain receptors operate imperfectly, Daniel,” he said. “Or, let me rather say, those triggering bodily-as opposed to emotional-pain function unreliably. I decided to use this truth about myself to my advantage. In a remote section of the Ozarks, during Mr Cleveland’s second presidency, I thought to make myself less fearsome. If my height affrighted people, I would reduce it. If my flesh’s grisly damask caused distaste or consternation, I would seek a remedy for my complexion.”
Henry leaned forward and gripped his ankles. He looked like a giant being potty trained-Goliath’s kid, maybe, or Paul Bunyan’s.
“Of all peoples, only the Oongpekmut had accepted me as one of them. Winning their trust had taken more effort than I ever wanted to expend again. I wanted permanent cures, alterations in my bodily self that would ease my absorption into any human community I hopefully approached.”
Henry reached into the drift of his overalls, untied his shoes, and heeled them off. Kicking away shoes and overalls together, he sat there in his too-small cotton stockings.
“With great quantities of gin, a kitchen knife, and a hacksaw, I removed foot-long sections from the lower leg bones my creator had scavenged from either a charnel house or an abattoir. Among my father’s effects on the Caliban had been a small notebook detailing many of the surgical procedures he had employed to build, albeit not to animate, me. This miniature treatise I had read and reread on my journey from the Barents Sea to the Chukchi Peninsula, and then again at intervals during my stay among my woman Kariak’s Innuit-to the point of total familiarity and intuitive comprehension.
“Armed with this information, I had little trouble cutting and then reconnecting the appropriate bones. At the summer solstice, with much trepidation I shortened my left leg. After that autoexcision, I performed a similar medial amputation on my right leg”-Henry touched the white scar-”about two weeks later. By my creator’s design, I bleed enough to cleanse my wounds, but not so profusely as to deprive me of recuperative vigor. Thus, though at first unable to ramble abroad or to limp from one spot to another in my cave, I healed in the time I had privately alloted; that is to say, within three months, or by the autumnal equinox.