Page 7 of The Wild Man
His feet are bare, and I wonder how in the hell he’s able to walk on such rough terrain and not hurt himself. Living in the wild has toughened up his feet, I’m sure, but there are things that would scratch and cut through the toughest skin.
His steps are light. So quiet that if I didn’t see him, I wouldn’t even know he was in front of me. No wonder he was able to sneak up on me unawares. My father and brothers are masters at being outdoorsmen, but they have nothing on Wild Man.
After about twenty minutes, we come up to a thick brush of green bushes. Wild Man doesn’t hesitate as he walks through the mass of green and goes out of view.
I do hesitate. I have no clue what’s beyond that wall of vegetation. I don’t know what’s going to happen on the other side. Or what I’ll find. It’s a worrisome notion, and I recognize I’d be stupid to chance it. But dammit, I’ve waited years for this opportunity.
My head jerks to the side when a branch snaps. It sounds like it’s a good distance away, but there’s no telling what or how close it is. It didn’t sound small though. A noise comes from the bushes in front of me, and my head swivels in that direction. I look up at the sky, or what I can see of it through the trees, and notice how far down the sun has gone. It’s on its descent into the west. Which means I only have a couple hours of daylight left.
I estimate I have about an hour of steady walking before I make it back to my campsite, so I have a little time to spare. Why not use that hour to try and learn more about Wild Man. To see where he lives. Or attempt to get him to speak with me.
Can he even speak? I mean, I’m sure he can make noises, but does he remember how to form words? According to rumor, he was five years old when he was left alone in the wild. From the little research I’ve been able to find on him, the talk is that he’s never left. He raised himself in this forest. Other than the two people who claimed to have glimpsed a man in the forest, there are no accounts of anyone approaching him. There’s been no one for him to talk to, so maybe he’s forgotten how.
That thought pulls on my heartstrings. I can’t imagine growing up utterly alone, especially at such a young age. I was two when Mom died, but I had Dad and my brothers, and later in life, my friends. I don’t remember Mom, but my family wasn’t the type to shy away from talking about her. I know her through pictures, their memories, and the many stories they’ve shared about her.
Wild Man had no one. He lost his parents so young and had no one to take care of him, comfort him, shield him from danger. How in the hell did he survive out here on his own? How did he manage to find food? How did he escape the many deadly creatures that roam the area? How did he survive the harsh weather elements?
I’m determined to get the answers to my questions. And to do that, I need to grow a pair of steel balls and move forward.
So that’s what I do.
My first step is hesitant, but the ones that follow are stronger and more steadfast. I step up to the thick overgrowth of brush and reach out. When I push it aside and walk through the small opening, I stop just on the other side.
My mouth drops open in awe at what I find.
It’s like a mini-oasis. The focal point of the hidden spot is a big white oak tree with thick branches that hang surprisingly low. Surrounding the tree are make-shift walls made out of tree branches and foliage. There’s a big open space where one can walk inside the structure. Between the large tree above and the branches and foliage, the area is protected from the rain. More walls are along the outside of the living space, giving a sense of privacy. The ground has a thick layer of old leaves and underbrush, which I’m sure makes the ground softer to walk on. Along one wall is a pile of random stuff that looks like it’s been there for years. I wonder how and when he started collecting it. Up against another wall, there are several long sticks with pointy ends. Weapons? Hunting tools?
From where I’m standing, I can’t get a good look inside the covered portion, but it fills me with curiosity. Is that where he sleeps?
The smell of burning wood has my gaze jerking around, looking for the source. To my left, Wild Man is squatting in front of a small fire. Before I can stop them, my eyes drop to the thick appendage hanging between his legs. It damn near brushes the ground. Does he always go around naked? Does he not own any clothes? It’s a silly question, since this forest is his home. He would have no way of getting clothes.
I move my gaze before he catches me staring at his junk and take a tentative step forward. His long hair falls forward, some draping over his wide shoulders while the rest falls down his back. One of his big tanned hands rests on his knee, while the other arm is stretched out. He’s holding a long stick with what looks like a piece of meat stuck on the end. I don’t even want to think about what animal it is.
He doesn’t look at me or acknowledge my presence as I slowly move closer.
“Hello.” I keep my voice low and even. “My name is Everlee. Or you can call me Ever.”
Nothing. He just flips the meat on the stick to the other side.
I stop on the opposite side of the fire from him, keeping the flames between us. “Do you have a name?”
Again, he doesn’t say anything. He ignores me and keeps his black gaze on the meat.
Spotting a log a few feet away, I roll it toward the fire and take a seat. I set my backpack beside me. I’m quiet for a few minutes, just watching the silent man in front of me, giving him time to get used to my presence. Every minute or so, he flips the meat over.
“The people in town call you Wild Man,” I say casually. “So I’ll just keep calling you that until you feel comfortable telling me your name. Is that okay?”
I’m not surprised when he doesn’t respond. It’s a good thing I have plenty of patience and a ton of tenacity. I knew this endeavor wouldn’t be easy. It would be shocking if Wild Man took to me immediately and told me his life’s story from the get go. Having not been around people for so long, I knew he would be wary and probably wouldn’t know how to socialize. I have to build his trust and show him I mean him no harm.
When I told Dillon I wanted to write an article about Wild Man, one of the stipulations I made with him and Linzi was that the location of Wild Man would stay out of the magazine. He’s lived in this forest peacefully for more than twenty years, and I didn’t want that to change for him. I didn’t want people to swarm the area on a hunt to locate the man who raised himself in the wilderness since he was a child. He has the right to continue living in peace, and I won’t be responsible for disrupting that. I merely want to observe him and document his journey, if he allows it.
“I work for a magazine,” I say conversationally. “I heard about you years ago and have been fascinated by what happened.” I internally cringe at how the words come out. It makes me sound like I get enjoyment from his suffering. “What I mean is, I’m interested to learn your story. How you came to live in the wild. How you survived. And if you’re okay with it, I’d like to document it.”
Not a peep or twitch.
I sigh. Rome wasn’t built in a day. Thankfully, I’m a freelance writer, so I can spend as much time as needed to get the information I want.
I watch Wild Man as he watches the meat he’s cooking. The light beneath the canopy of trees is growing dimmer by the minute, which means I need to leave soon. I’d rather not be traipsing through the forest at night. I have a cabin I go to every couple of days to shower and charge my sat phone, but mostly I stay in my tent. It’s weird camping on my own, but it’s also peaceful, relaxing.