Devolution: A Firsthand Account of the Rainier Sasquatch Massacre

Chapter 18

Mostar released my cheek, took my hand, and led me into her workshop. Her armory. That’s what it looked like now. Bamboo staffs against the wall, kitchen knives out on the workbench. Failed experiments, prototypes, were cast in the far corner. I could see unevenly sawed or split shafts, bent and chipped knives. Snapped shoelaces, different rolls of tape, and an unspooled tangle of shiny red Christmas ribbon.

“Stand here.” Mostar directed me to the middle of the room. “Back straight.” She stared me up and down for a second, then reached for one of the bamboo poles. “Stay still.” She placed the stalk against my back. “Almost perfect.” Then set the stalk on the bench. “Watch, listen. Remember each step exactly.”

That’s why I’ve written the next section down as a kind of instruction manual. I don’t trust I’ll remember anything after I pass out tonight. I’m also stuck on something Mostar said while we worked. Something about “teaching the rest of the village.” I didn’t ask what she meant. I didn’t get the chance. She just jumped right into the lesson and here it is.

How to make a spear from scratch:

Choosing the right bamboo staff is critical. It can’t be tapered. That’ll ruin the balance. And it’s got to fit your height. Too long is too unwieldly. Too short and you risk falling on the blade. It doesn’t have to be exact, more important that the top section perfectly encases the knife’s handle. The staff’s got to have the right girth, thick enough to be strong but not so wide that you can’t get a firm grip. (Wow, that sounds dirty. Sorry, I’m really loopy right now.)

When harvesting the stalk, you saw just below the bottom connector, or whatever those rings are called. It takes a while, especially with a skinny bread knife. And there’s a special method. If you go down one side, like with regular wood, and miss just a tiny bit of connecting fiber, that fiber will tear a strip down the whole length. As Mostar warns, “That will decrease integrity and increase splinters.” The trick is to first saw in a complete circle, severing that tough top layer, before going for the deep cut.

Next, you saw off all the branches (which can be made into stakes) and file down the sharp nubs with an emery board. Oh, for just one square of sandpaper!

I didn’t actually do these first two parts. That’s why she’d measured me. A pre-cut stalk would save time. That was the only part of the lesson she did herself. The rest was hands-on for me.

Like the shaft, choosing the knife takes careful consideration. You can’t just use the longest blade. Those tend to be too thin. The best option is the shorter, eight-inch “chef” type, which also needs to be the right design.

One solid piece, the steel going all the way down through the handle. Otherwise, you can’t attach it to the shaft. And attaching is the trickiest part. If the knife’s grip is held in place by pins, you’re in business. Pins mean holes in the steel. And those holes are the best way to tie them on, but I’ll explain that part in a minute.

Hopefully the grip itself is made of resin. That way you can smash it out with a rock. (I know… not one hammer in the whole village!) Be safe while smashing, those fragments can hit you in the eye. While wearing Mostar’s onion goggles, I felt little chips peppering my face.

Once the grip and the pins are removed, the next step is fitting. Slide the handle into the hollow top of the shaft. If it doesn’t fit (good strong bamboo might not have enough internal room), you’ve got to saw out a little groove with the bread knife. Once your naked blade fits snugly, take it right back out for measuring.

That’s where the handle holes come in. Place those holes against the outside of the shaft, mark them with a pen (Sharpie, if you got one), then do it again on the other side. See where I’m going with this? You bore those holes out with a paring knife. Take your time. Don’t rush. Mostar showed me where she chipped off the edge of a couple of paring knives, ruining them forever. Checking for light shows if they all line up. I got it right the first time, and Mostar seemed impressed. Apparently, that’s the easiest way to screw up, not matching the holes, and the more you drill, the more you weaken the bamboo.

Next, you sew the knife in, and that’s what the wire’s for. Mostar used a five-foot section of electrical cord from a floor lamp. After cutting the cord free (a regular scissors will do), pull the two sections apart (if it’s that kind). Set the extra section aside for another spear, and start threading the wire through the top hole. Sounds simple enough, but my first few tries only produced frustration. The tip kept getting stuck because I’d impatiently skipped a step. Shaving down the wire’s end rubber to a point turns it into a needle, which makes a world of difference!

Once the wire exits the second top hole, pull it through nearly to the end and tie the last inch or so into a secure knot. Then wrap the cord tightly round and round the bamboo until you get to the two bottom holes. Then thread it through, tie it off, and you’re done!

A real spear!

Mostar took the weapon from me, held it in her hands, checking the balance, squinted with one eye at the knotted wire, then handed it back. “Well done, Katie.” It was the first time she smiled all day.

I felt so proud. For a minute, I just handled my creation—vertical, horizontal. I even gave a short thrusting motion with both hands and accidentally banged the back end into the garage door.

“Sorry.” I felt my cheeks redden at the dent.

Mostar waved it away with, “Forget it.” Then, “I knew you’d be a natural at this. You have a logical, methodical mind. Much more than me.” She gestured to the aborted prototypes. “This is how it works. Try, fail, learn, then pass on eventual success for improvement.”

That sparked my own idea for an improvement. “What about melting the rubber? Won’t it hold the blade even more securely?”

“It might”—Mostar gave me that nod an encouraging teacher gives a well-meaning but totally wrong first-grader—“but it would ruin the wire, which we might need to make more spears.”

She gestured to a collection of shorter, thinner shafts. “That’s what worries me about the javelins. Losing a good knife every time we throw one. Although I guess they’ll just slide right out if I don’t figure out a way to make barbs.”

Another idea stirred, but this one was far more nebulous. I looked at the 3-D printer but couldn’t manage a cohesive thought. Instead, I ended up yawning, which gave me a sympathy yawn from Mostar.

“You need to sleep”—she glanced up at the wall clock—“when you take over watching Reinhardt. I don’t think he’s woken up yet. You’ll rest then. And eat.”

Eat.

I suddenly felt sick to my stomach. I’d been so wrapped up in making the spear, so engrossed in the step-by-step process. But with some of my focus freed…

I must have glanced over to the door, the kitchen, Vincent’s head in the freezer.

“We’ll bury him later.” Mostar, the mind reader. “When we’re safe, when we have time.”

I felt my head swim, lurching for the table.

“Take a breath.” Mostar took my spear, guiding me to the workbench’s little stool. “Try to relax.”

I did, closing my eyes tightly. I felt the dam bursting in my brain.

To be someone else’s food.

You’re a person. You think, you feel. And then it’s all gone, and what used to be you is now a mushy mess in something else’s stomach.

Carnage, blood, smiling yellow fangs. Gnawing flesh. Licking bones.

“Look at me.” The hand on my chin, forcing me to open my eyes.

“I know.” Mostar’s sad smile, the sigh. “It’s a blessing and a curse, the human mind. We’re the only creatures on Earth that can imagine our own death. But”—she held up my spear—“we can also imagine ways to prevent it.”

That was when the doorbell rang.

Palomino stood in the entry, holding a rolled-up yoga mat. “What are you doing here, Little Doll?” Mostar grabbed her and pulled her inside. “You know you’re not supposed to be outside all alone. Do your parents know where you are?”

She shook her head, then pointed, with the mat, to something outside.

Then I got it. The mat was to keep her knees clear of dirt. “Hey, Pal, I’m sorry I don’t have time to garden with you right now. I’ve got to get over to Mr. Reinhardt to…”

Wrong. Pal shook her head at me, then shifted back to Mostar with a second gesture to… what?

I looked but couldn’t see anything. Not a specific house, not the volcano, and (thank God!) no dark forms staring down from the trees.

She was facing southeast, and, to my knowledge, there was nothing in that direction. Again, Mostar seemed perplexed. “I’m sorry, I don’t…”

Then, “Oh,” followed by a quick glance back at her wall clock. “Ohhhhh!” This big, broad smile broke her mouth wide open and I’m pretty sure the corners of her eyes began to sparkle.

“Oh, Lutko Moja, it’s been a long time.” Mostar pinched the bridge of her nose, used it to shake her head, then looked up with a shrugging, “C’mon, let’s see if I remember.”

Ignoring my confusion, Mostar put an arm around the girl, and asked me, “Would you mind running upstairs to fetch a clean towel from the hall closet?”

It was my first time upstairs. I didn’t intend to snoop.

But her house is laid out pretty much like ours. The hall closet is right next to the master bedroom. I didn’t go in. The door was open. And the picture was so big, facing the bed, which you couldn’t miss from my position in the hall.

Mostar looked a lot younger, maybe twenties or thirties. She wasn’t thin, but her hourglass figure stood out in her belted coat. Her hair glistened, raven black under a knit wool cap. The man with his arm around her, he looked about the same age. Goatee. Glasses. The kind of Euro intellectual you always see in movies, the kind of guy I thought I’d marry when I was in high school. They both had their arms around the kids standing in front of them.

Boy and girl. The boy looked about twelve, the girl maybe ten. Big grins, genuine on the boy, silly mugging on the girl.

They were standing on the rocky bank of a frozen river. A bridge rose up behind them. Narrow, no cars. An old stone arch connecting two sides of an equally old stone town. I didn’t recognize the bridge at first, but then it hit me that I was looking at the real version of her glass sculpture!

I couldn’t tell where. Maybe Russia. I’ve only seen pictures of Red Square. I’m also pretty sure it wasn’t Northwest Europe either. The buildings and the clothes seemed too drab, if that’s the right word. Eastern Europe? Poland? Czech Republic—or, if I remember high school history, back then it would have been Czechoslovakia? What’s the southeast called? The part before you get to Turkey. Sounds like Baltics. Balkans.

Yugoslavia, another country I’d read about in school. A war in the ’90s? I would have been about those kids’ age. I didn’t exactly follow current events back then. The ’90s were O.J. and Britney.

Even at Penn, I only took intro to poli-sci and all I remember is the term “ethnic cleansing.” And Professor Tongun, from Sudan, “Like a tree in the forest, America doesn’t hear foreign suffering.”

Shelling. Snipers. Siege fries. Mostar.

“Katie!” from downstairs. “We’re waiting.”

I grabbed the biggest bath towel she had, ran downstairs, and found them in the kitchen. Mostar looked up at me, smirking. She has to know that I saw the picture. All she said was, “Perfect timing.”

They must have just finished washing their hands, and, I think, their feet as well. I could see moisture glistening between their toes. I thought Mostar was going to use the towel to dry them off but when she took it from me, the two of them headed into the living room.

“You can watch,” she said over her shoulder, “I don’t think He’ll mind. Or She. What do I know?” She gave a slight shrug, chuckled, then spread the towel on the floor next to Pal’s yoga mat. They were at an angle from the living room window, facing in the direction Pal had motioned to earlier.

They both stood ramrod straight, placed their hands up a little past their shoulders, palms out, as Mostar chanted, “Allahuackbar.”

I won’t try to describe in detail what I witnessed. I know I’d just mess it up. I want to be respectful, although I’m sure neither Mostar nor Pal would mind. The beauty of their prayer, the fluid, ballet motions. Raised arms, turned heads. Knees bending and rising to Mostar’s sung phrases. And then the name, through a cracking voice:

“Vincent Earnest Boothe.”