Joko by Karl Kofoed Page A

night and sleeping by day. By now they could be far away, and every second they got farther away from where he fell from the bluff.
    Had they seen him fall? Had they tried to save him? They might have. But he never heard them whistle. And when he was trapped in the shed, why hadn’t he heard their call? Why hadn’t they called to him?
    Jocko remembered being unconscious. They might have thought him dead. If they couldn’t get his body from the humans they would head west, toward forbidding cliffs and high mountains feared by man. Jocko knew that his family might think they had ventured too near the humans. After losing one of their own, they would be trying especially hard to avoid people. If Jocko didn’t find his family soon, he might never find them.
    Jocko was now forced to trust his most feared enemy, a human, if he was ever to find his way back to where he’d lost his way. Back to the bluff where the trainmen and Johnny took him.

    As he touched the sas quatch, sadness overwhelmed Johnny.
    All at once, for some reason, he felt cold and alone.
    Jocko let go. Suddenly the feeling stopped.
    Johnny wiped a tear from his eye. “God, Jocko. What was that?” Johnny shook his head as Jocko watched him with interest.
    Soon the two were walking single file through thick forest.
    Jocko guided them smoothly through the undergrowth with amazing speed and efficiency. Occasionally he would touch Johnny and he would know which way to go.
    They returned to Yale in a way that kept them hidden and brought them back to where Johnny had left Tilly and the wagon.
    Because of the link with the ape-boy, Johnny knew Jocko hoped to go, but he tried to explain that before they could go back to the bluffs they should stop at his aunt’s place for food and maybe some advice.
    It wasn’t long before they saw the railroad depot. The two paused, surveying the scene.
    Johnny put a hand on Jocko’s furry shoulder. The hair felt like human hair, only thicker. He could feel the muscles move underneath. Jocko looked at him.
    Johnny thought Jocko looked more human with each passing moment. He assessed Jocko’s features, wondering what it would take to make him look more human. The ape-boy’s nose flared slightly but presented a gentle profile. His forehead was broad, hairless with thick eyebrows that hid brown deep-set eyes. Johnny quickly decided that the eyes were Jocko’s most human feature. Jocko’s jaw line didn’t jut like an ape’s. His lips were thin and his teeth showed easily when Jocko smiled.
    On the trail, walking together for the first time, Johnny watched with amusement as Jocko picked plants and ate them while never breaking his stride. Sometimes he would spit one out, only to grab another and gobble it down.
    The same was true of bugs, but Johnny tried to ignore that. It wasn’t that Jocko ate bugs, it was the offhanded way he did it that bothered Johnny. Popping a beetle in one’s mouth was something Johnny had never contemplated. Jocko did it routinely and with relish. He chewed them loudly, apparently enjoying the way they crunched. Every time Jocko did it Johnny felt a little sick.
    As they followed the trail along the tracks, Johnny watched the ape-boy. Despite the hair, Jocko looked more human than ape.
    “You know if you cut that shoulder length hair and shaved a bit, you might look human.” Jocko looked at Johnny but made no attempt to reply. He was moving in long, slow, casual strides, but even walking fast, Johnny was having trouble keeping up with him. As the ape-boy pulled ahead, Johnny could imagine a hairless Jocko with small ears and a short neck, made to look even shorter by his thickly muscled shoulders.
    A stick cracking underfoot near the shed caught Johnny and Jocko’s attention. They both crouched behind a bush and studied the scene. Johnny couldn’t see anyone or anything except Tilly and the wagon.
    Jocko touched his shoulder and pointed to the right of the shed. Sure enough, Johnny saw a boot and