The strange bud, Part 1
There was an old man who lived in a shelter deep in the woods. He was all alone. He hunted with his boomstick and cut the meat apart where it fell.
He had a rancid bag he'd carry the parts home in. Now, I recognize it was a child's backpack perhaps he'd found somewhere, the way I found these faded jeans to hide my hairy scrotum.
The bag was rank and stained with many trips. He'd wash it down in the river and great gobs of gore bled into the water. I would wait for him to do this when I was a child. Those tendrils of red spread into the ripples and I would try to catch them in my hands. I would drink the sweet juice until my belly was bloated.
I watched the strange old man, having traced his gift to its source. Often I'd creep onto his porch to discover the mystery. I would watch him while he sat making small lip movements like a chattering squirrel, staring at the thin leaves of some strange bud.
It lay flat on the table and sometimes he moved the leaves, always in one direction, as if he were a tiny puff of wind coming in fits and starts.
When he was not cooking, he was at this. When he was not just sleeping in a chair, he would do this. I could not understand the reason.
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