Preface
In North American Indian lore, there have been uncountable stories told of certain tribes leaving their unhealthy children for the hairy men (Bigfoot/Sasquatch) of the forest to rear.
In part, this story is of such a boy. When finally his father made the decision to take him deep into the high-mountain forest, the boy seemed to do little else but cry. He ate little, walked with much effort and had not learned more than three or four words.
The opinion of the Chief of this tribe was that if the boy were his, he’d place the child into the hands of the ancient hairy men of the mountains.
The handsome and very much loved two-year-old was the couple’s first child. The young parents, however, were convinced by the tribe’s elders that their child would soon perish if he were not allowed to walk freely the good earth and to breathe deeply of the wide sky, which only the hairy men of the deep forests and high mountains could provide, could oversee.
The Hairy Men of the High Forests
by
Linda Newton-Perry
and
Christopher Perry
The smell of them, the hairy men, is strong, powerful, sickening at times. And this for good reason, I have often observed them roll around in the entrails, in the blood, in the bodily waste of their kills.
The same is true of the females, except during their time of mating, when to my nose they exude an overpowering green-grass smell. It’s tolerable, that is if one (one, meaning human) can smell it at all, for the acrid, overpowering filth of them.
For me, the odors were the least of the annoyances of the female’s mating time. I was not of their kind. But, one of them, Baday, my name for her, would sniff my breath and maneuver her powerful hairy thigh between my legs in an attempt to excite me. After much difficulty, I always managed to escape her advances. By difficulty, I mean, she’d pounce and claw me with her dirty, jagged nails. She’d bellow chest-rattling growls. She’d nip deep patches of skin from my face, neck and back.
When done playing with me, and that’s what she was doing for with one good swat of her hand she could have killed me, she’d spring to her feet and be off─off to her next conquest, these many, and of her kind, some milling close by but most waiting patiently in somewhat of a line. And all this before I could rub the smell of her from my nose. . . .
