✷
For the unfound.
✷
A battered, oxidizing family sedan shot down a road carved into Earth’s skin.
Inside, Ron Para gripped the wheel so hard he’d lost feeling in his fingers. He hadn’t even noticed. His eyes swept across the road, never flicking once to his speedometer.
Up ahead were the Lowell Cliffs hiking trails.
The passenger seat was littered with receipts, energy bar husks and crushed plastic water bottles. On the passenger-side carpet rested a thick, battered paperback titled, “An Introduction to Heidegger’s Dasein.”
The radio belched static and noise. Human confusion. These idiots would argue about anything. It was Ron’s duty to listen carefully, weigh the evidence and make a summary judgment.
A nasally baritone voice said, “… for years, someone or something has been making people on these trails disappear. But in recent months, a hero has stepped up to foil the Prowler.”
Ron spoke to the radio, “Bullshit.”
“You’re basing all this Prowler claptrap on one missing person,” said a woman with an even, commanding tone.
“Four,” said Radio Guy.
“Vagrants. Nomads. Runaways. You don’t need a boogeyman to explain that,” said Radio Gal.
“The Prowler is out there.”
“Ooh, chills.”
“We’ve got a caller.” A button click in the studio. “Hello, John, from Eastside.”
“I’ve seen the Lowell Cliffs Prowler.” A teenaged boy with a quavering voice.
Radio Guy said, “John, thanks for joining us. Can you describe him? The Prowler?”
“It was real dark. He was all in black. He had gloves. And he made a rasping sound.”
“Did he say anything? Did you see his face?”
“No. As soon as he attacked us—”
“Us?” asked Radio Gal.
“Me and my friends. He attacked my friend. But then she just appeared out of nowhere.”
Radio Guy said, “You mean the Swiss Miss?”
“Yeah. I mean, maybe. She wore a red cloak. She looked like how they say.”
“Tell us more.”
Radio Gal snorted. “Yeah, tell us more about what drugs you were on.”
“We never— “
Radio Guy said, “Ignore her. She just needs more coffee. John, tell us more about the Swiss Miss.”
“All I could see was her eyes. Like bright lights. When she appeared, it scared him off. Then she was gone.”
Radio Gal was laughing. “There you have it, folks. A man who could look like anyone attacked two stoners last night and was foiled by a hot chocolate mascot.”
The caller disconnected with a hollow click.
Radio Gal laughed. “What a loon.”
“Folks, this prowler problem is real. Stay vigilant, hike with a —"
Ron punched the radio off. He was always vigilant. Thanks a lot, Radio Dorks.
✷
Ron parked near the trailhead and shoved a pepper-spray bottle into the cargo pocket of his military surplus fatigues. A flaking superhero logo adorned his threadbare t-shirt.
He ran a hand through his hair. It was bristly, cropped short, like a wild boar’s. His ruddy, calloused skin made him look tough. People often mistook him for being ex-military and that was just fine. He’d been pretty good with a BB gun as a kid.
The stale, dim car interior was replaced by a fine Wednesday blue, a smattering of clouds and a cold, briny ocean breeze. Invigorating. Only a few cars in the lot this early.
Ron was restless. Only so much packing and sorting warehouse inventory that a person could take. But last week they’d had a time crunch. Too many shipments, too much of the boss shouting orders. And only Rhoda’s radio or Bisco’s beatboxing to deflect the chaos.
Finally, a few days off. A long hike, miles away from responsibility, with no one telling him what to do.
Following the rocky path, he could feel the satisfying scrape of his soles against the earth. Near a sharp bend, he peered over a cliff edge so tall the shrubs at the bottom looked like little toys. Such exhilarating vertigo! The only thing between him and a final plunge was his own self-control. A trip over the edge and a man could get a lot of thinking done before being skewered on the toothy rocks below. At the bottom, the sea raged against the rocks to knock them down and grind the bits to sand. He had a recurring dream where he was on a tiny wooden raft in the middle of the churn, just waiting for the big one to wash him overboard forever.
A hawk’s cry pierced the din of the waves. An unapologetic declaration that something was about to die to feed its belly. He tried to imitate the sound, but it broke in his throat like a bad yodel. A runner materialized on a nearby hill and gave him a funny look in passing. He pretended to study a patch of grass until the runner was out of sight.
Someone prowled these trails. People just vanished. The thought sent a buzz through him. What if he were the Lowell Cliffs Prowler? Who would he pick?
Another runner approached. He could hear the syncopated footsteps fast and crunchy on the sandy trail, like Bisco spitting out a riff, shh-tch-tch-shh-shh-tch-tch-tch.
This runner guy, he was long-legged. And fast, like a gazelle. But his eyes were close together and pointed straight ahead, like a cheetah. Corporate type, lean and mean, no doubt about it. In a few hours, Corporate Guy would be back in the office, wrecking lives. Like the interview guy in his shiny swollen suit who’d grinned at Ron with sharp teeth, asked him a few questions, and dismissed him with a solemn shake of the head when he saw Ron’s single misdemeanor.
Corporate Guy blazed past him, leaving a wake of aftershave, sweat and lavender.
Ron decided the Prowler would skip this guy. Too much work to chase him down. Plus, athletic types might fight back. The Prowler chose carefully. That was how he got away with it.
✷
A car door slammed back at the parking lot. Ron retraced his steps until he could surveil the situation. A family of four spilled out of a shiny SUV. Dad scolded a teenaged girl, “—didn’t travel all this way so you can chat on your phone. I mean, look at all this nature!” The girl said something too quiet for Ron to hear, which sparked an argument. Mom finally ended it by telling both kids, “Stay here. We’ll be back in an hour.” The girl sulked back in her seat while the boy scoured his surroundings.
Ron knew that look. A kid who wanted to run away from it all. He’d been that kid.
The parents passed Ron at a brisk pace.
Mom said, “—all year, Jordan’s been a total pill.”
Dad said, “This is a girl thing, right?”
“No, honey, it’s—“
At least they weren’t talking about sending the kids away. Ron would never forget a whole summer of Grandpa’s backhands. He’d stopped running away after that.
Ron decided the Prowler would pass on the family, maybe take the day off. He roamed the trails for an hour until a college-aged woman in a pale blue shirt, blue jeans and white sneakers strode by, humming some oldies tune.
He followed the bobbing blonde hair, huffing as he struggled to keep up. Ron’s body wasn’t built for this kind of sustained, forward motion. Time to start working out again.
The trail ended in a scenic viewpoint. He caught up to her as she surveyed the expanse of sea and sky, still humming. His feet scuffled when he was a few feet behind her. She twisted around with widening eyes and took a step back.
“You scared me!” She tightened the red jacket knotted around her waist.
Her blue eyes scanned him like searchlights, and her lips pressed together in determination. She wasn’t out of breath like he was.
“What a view, huh?” he said.
She cocked her head to look past his shoulder. Probably checking to see if anyone else was nearby. Did she think he was the Prowler?
Her face relaxed. “This whole area is special. Sacred.” Her voice was smooth and musical.
He bent to pick up a discarded energy bar wrapper, making sure she saw him do it. “We gotta keep these trails clean, you know?” As he pocketed it, he became aware of his paunch, so he sucked in his gut to look more fit.
She groaned in disgust. “People are so disrespectful.”
“Tell me about it.”
The wind whistled.
He should say something reassuring. The Prowler was probably a smooth talker. “See that seaweed out there?” He pointed. “It hangs on, no matter how tough the waves are.”
She studied the spot. “Macrocystis pyrifera. Giant kelp. You know it grows several feet a day?”
“Incredible! College kid, huh?” He said, “I did the college thing for a few years.” He’d run out of funds and used his job at a print shop to sell cheap textbook copies to students. Until the college expelled him and he got six months of probation.
She shrugged her shoulders.
“You gonna fix the world?”
She laughed. “Yeah, right. But maybe I can protect a little part of it. Come on.” She led him to a broader stretch of the trail where stubby weeds grew along the cliff edge.
”This—” she thrust her foot into a patch of thick, spiky, green, three-sided leaves, “—is a menace. Carpobrotus edulis. Ice plant. Pretty, right?”
He nodded.
“It’s an intruder.” She stomped on the patch, squashing the leaves, which leaked out a viscous liquid. She bent down and pulled up the undergrowth beneath the leaves.
“See this root mat? It creeps all over these trails. Kills the native plants. Erodes the soil.” Anger spilled into her voice. “Rats make their homes in it. This plant is selfish and useless and should be destroyed.”
She rose, dusted off her hands and faced him, feet planted firmly, arms crossed. Guardian of the Trails. Like she was judging him. Like he was personally responsible for the invasive plants.
“Everything deserves a chance to live, doesn’t it? Survival of the fittest, right?” Ron felt a kinship with the little plant.
“Don’t. Don’t say that. Everybody gets that wrong.” She sighed. “Oh, it’s silly. I mean, there’s a murderer on the loose.”
“Don’t worry, there’s the Swiss Miss.” Ron snorted at his joke.
“I hate that name.”
“She’s just a boogeyman’s boogeyman.”
“Oh, she’s real.” She sounded serious.
He’d overshared his opinions again. “Well, maybe I’ll help with some patrolling myself.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
The wind picked up, and four pelicans appeared close by, as if they had sprouted from the cliffs. They dipped in single file towards the ocean, in search of unsuspecting fish just below the water’s surface.
She said, “Well, I’d better head on. Nice to meet you.”
Her eyes told him that she felt no connection. How could she? Just more proof that his grandfather was right to call him a lifetime zero.
They stood side-by-side at the trail’s edge. She smelled like mushrooms, maple syrup, stale sweat and cut grass.
She was so close. A gentle push would do it. The Lowell Cliffs Prowler strikes again.
Wasn’t it better to be notorious than nothing?
He shifted his foot and torso, then brought his hand up to her shoulder, intending to trip her over the ledge. She’d fall onto the rocks.
The sea would claim her.
Cold and ruined and abandoned.
A shudder ran the length of his body. The Prowler game wasn’t fun anymore.
But he was already in motion. He could have steadied himself on her shoulder, but she wasn’t responsible for his mistakes.
So he let gravity take him.
Gravel skittered beneath his boots. A sudden contraction in his belly, and then the earth was gone and air was rushing through his hair. Blues, greens, ochres and whites swirled all about. As a boy, he would twirl his plastic top across the kitchen table and watch it fall to the floor, marveling at its spin all the way down. And he would laugh and pick it up and do it again. Spinning and falling. Over and over.
Calm washed over his mind, allowing him to study every detail of her. The sun lined her body. Her shirt fluttered as rays of sunlight pierced the cotton weave. She stood firmly on the cliff edge, strong and powerful, with fire-bright hair and starlight eyes.
Through her eyes, he saw himself—a child, a boy, a man, a pile of dust.
His hands shot out reflexively, but they seemed to pass through her, as if he were fading away. A slow fade that had begun years ago. Only Bisco had even noticed his last birthday. No card from dear old Mom.
The best part of running away from home was being welcomed back. But today, who would identify him when the cops hauled his corpse out of the water?
He was barely a part of this world anyways.
So he waited for death.
Then the Guardian of the Trails thrust out her hands and she grabbed his forearms and she pulled him back onto the rough, solid path.
Her staunch grasp anchored him, connecting him to her, to the Earth, to the universe.
Ron was confused. Why had she saved him? He crouched with knees bent, shoulders slumped, hands pressing into the rocks on the trail. The acid taste in his mouth weakened him.
“You ok? That was close! Good thing you weren’t hiking out here alone.”
He nodded, sucked in air. Swallowed it whole, hungry for more.
“You’re the Swiss Miss.”
“Maybe I just hang around here to catch falling hikers.” She squinted at him, eyes once more blue. A subtle smile. “Hey, it’s ok. Back on solid ground. You’re going to be ok.”
Ron turned away, shivering. Unwilling to meet her gaze because he was crying. She should have let him fall. “I’m sorry!” He sniffed. “I’m sorry.”
He’d felt the same shame when he’d come home from school with his backpack missing. An older kid had roughed him up. Ron’s dad had disapproved of his not fighting back. And crying was unacceptable. Ron hadn’t cried again until today.
She knelt, placing her warm hand on his clammy shoulder. He shuddered, but she held steady. She whispered something in his ear. Something he didn’t understand.
Ron stood up, still shaky on his legs, and sprinted towards his car.
The tears wouldn’t stop flowing as he hammered the path with his heavy boots. He rounded a corner and collided with another hiker.
“Watch where you’re going!”
It was the jogger he’d seen earlier. Corporate Guy.
Corporate Guy looked annoyed at first, but then his expression softened. “Are you ok?” He shifted from side to side, clearly uncomfortable.
“Do you need help?”
Ron wiped his eyes and shook his head. He sped along the path back to the parking lot. The crunch of the tiny gravel amplified his retreat.
✷
He reached the parking lot. The kids in the SUV were complaining. Mom and Dad were arguing. They had a flat and no tools to fix it. Each one blamed the other instead of looking for a solution. Just like Ron’s parents always had.
Ron started his car and headed out. There were some empty plastic water bottles near the exit. He got out and threw them into the park’s recycling bin. Some litterer’s sin absolved with a flick of his wrist.
The Guardian had whispered something like, “The butterfly’s beauty comes from the work of the caterpillar.” Was she the caterpillar? He glanced in the rearview mirror. He wasn’t the butterfly.
He hopped back in the driver’s seat. He needed to research bugs. But the rearview mirror had also shown him that Mom and Dad were still arguing.
So he circled back and parked alongside the SUV.
“Got a spare?” he asked.
They nodded.
Dad started unpacking the SUV’s trunk while Ron got his tools.
Mom said, “We don’t want to trouble you.”
Ron smiled and pointed at the kids in the backseat with the tire iron. “We’re all impatient at their age, aren’t we?” He placed the jack under the SUV. “You’ll be back on the road in a jiff.”
“You know, most people would have just driven by.”
Ron shrugged. He got to work. The tools were solid in his hands.
✷
Kyle Wagner lives in a coastal town where he and his wife explore life above, at and below sea level. He has attended workshops and classes at the Taos/Santa Fe Summer Writers' Conference, Gotham Writers, and Madison Writers' Studio. His work has been published in Flash Fiction Magazine. He stockpiles chocolate because it is essential to life and can only be found on this planet.
