Free Joko by Karl Kofoed Page A

left the shed to roam the area. Nothing seemed familiar so he returned to the shack at dawn, convinced he would never see them again. He knew better than to wail. Mountain People, as they thought of themselves, are taught be quiet and stand still when they are lost.
    Today , thought Jocko , Johnny might show him a way back to the cliffs. Perhaps there he could find the scent of his family.

    Johnny’s aunt called from the house: “Get some eggs, John.
    And leave your friend where he is. He might scare the chickens!”
    “We’ll be lucky if he doesn’t eat one!” Johnny called back.
    “Well, it’s up to you to see he don’t!” she retorted with a sniff, disappearing back into the kitchen.
    “Gotta go,” said Johnny. “Stay here, Jocko,” he added, being sure to touch Jocko as he said it.
    Then Johnny and the dog trotted off to the chicken coop at the far end of the garden.

    Jocko watched Johnny disappear into the chicken coop in the distance while the ‘good wolf’ Rocky – as Jocko thought of him – waited patiently outside wagging his tail.
    He wondered why humans keep some animals as pets yet kill others.
    Humans, as Jocko had been told all his life, liked to kill, and they would go to great lengths to do so. He’d been told over and over by his elders that humans could not be predicted like other animals. They didn’t follow nature’s ways.
    The mountain people could not fathom mankind’s actions, nor their affinity for material things. The native humans lived close to nature and respected the sasquatch. But the new humans; the ‘whites’, as the Indians called them, were a dangerous breed. They had sticks that made thunder and fire that could kill over long distances. They carried fire that did not burn them. They wore skins, often from bright and strangely colored animals.
    They carried things. Things they wore, things they chewed, and things they threw away for no apparent reason.
    They ate from strange containers and always put their food in the fire before they could eat it. They burned meat before they ate it, fouling the forest air with the smell of death.
    Sasquatch avoided fire. Humans couldn’t seem to get enough of it.
    To Jocko’s kin, humans were one of the many dangers that nature placed before them.
    But to Jocko, for reasons unknown to him or his family, humans were a curiosity. Stranger still, he liked them.
    He got up and walked back toward the corn.

    From her kitchen Gert could see the dark figure she knew to be Jocko moving slowly among the cornrows. He seemed to know about corn, pulling only ripe ears from the taller stalks.
    Luckily, it had been a good year and their harvest relatively bountiful. But she had heard stories that the mountain men were giants. How much could one growing sasquatch eat?
    After pondering that while she watched Jocko forage breakfast from her garden, she contented herself with the idea that the raspberry and currant patches hadn’t been touched. She trusted that the berries would bring some welcome cash when she sold them as jam to Marshall’s store in Yale. Blackberries, salmonberries, even blueberries, were plentiful around Yale, but red raspberries were less plentiful and fetched a good price. They made good jam for Christmas presents.
    Gert was wondering how long it would take Jocko to find the berry patch when Johnny came in with a handful of eggs.
    “Tell your friend out there to keep his grazing down,” she said. “We have to face a winter every year, you know.”
    There was a cup of coffee waiting for Johnny at the breakfast table, and Rocky was already under Johnny’s seat ready to catch falling debris.
    As he sat down, Johnny looked between his knees.
    “Move, Rock. You’re leavin’ no room for my feet!” Rocky whined a bit and moved to a place where he could still watch the table.
    Gert cherished breakfasts with Johnny as the warmest part of her day. Without Johnny her life would be empty.
    Since her sister died, Johnny had