IN MEMORY OF MICHELLE

I am thirty years old and work at the new University of Nebraska’s Omaha Campus.  I am a qualified Biologist, but my job description classifies me as a Teaching Assistant.

After coming to the city from my home state of Arizona, I have been continuously fascinated by the wide, majestic, meandering river, which flows past Omaha.  The great Missouri River.  This being the case, on my first vacation, and lacking adequate funds to do naught else, I embarked upon a two-week camping trip along this fascination of mine.  I hired a friend’s father, who drove a beer wagon, to deposit me along the great river, south of the railroad bridge.  He was to return in two weeks’ time to collect me.

My first night was a marvelous experience.  Until I was flung out of my slumber by an ear-piercing screech and a loud, ground-shaking rumble that I feared was the end of the world, but which turned out to be a fast, heavily loaded train, racing into the city.  After a more or less sleepless night, I decided the area near the rail bridge was not conducive to rest and relaxation.

The first pink and orange strands of dawn found me walking, in search of a quieted area in which to spend my weeks.  The land along the river was a vast, expansive area of thick trees, occasional thickets of bramble or bogs, and searching the terrain took me several hours before I found a spot from which I was sure those never-ending trains would not bother me.  Then having found my spot, moving all my equipment took me most of the day.  I had plenty of gear, and had not foreseen the necessity of having to carry everything two miles from where I had been deposited.  It was a long, sweaty, tiring day for me.

But the end result was worth the effort, as I surveyed my primitive castle in the virgin wilderness.  My second evening was restful and peaceful, and the dratted trains were only an occasional far-off rumble, or a faintly heard steam whistle.  During my two weeks there, I never saw or heard a single human being.  I was completely alone out there by my own choosing and relished every moment of the time.

Yes, as I said, I never saw one human being.  But what I did see was more awe-inspiring than any number of people could have evoked.  It was my fourth day on the river, around dusk, when I first saw him.  At first he was the only one, but he did not see me, as I sat in a tree.  I’ll elucidate.

I was perched precariously on a thin branch that hung out over the slow-moving river, attempting to attach a throw-line to the overhanging branch.  Having never fished before, my friends provided me with a few necessities for fishing, and innumerable parables for achieving success.  They also supplied me with a noxious substance, which they claimed would entice the wily Catfish right out of the water.  Unwrapping the cloth from around the bait, my nose wrinkled in disgust and I understood how this could be.  The odoriferous concoction would cause any self-respecting fish to literally leap out of the water to escape the stringent goop!  But I dutifully applied the concoction to the hooks as I was instructed.  Had been for days, but as of yet had no interested fishes.  I speculated my BAIT had most assuredly driven them all downstream into far-off Kansas or Missouri!

To continue, I sat approximately nine feet over the muddy bank, mostly stretched out along the thin branch, to reach out as far as possible, so as to allow the line to be completely above the water . . . when he emerged.

As I mentioned, the sun was already gone from the sky, leaving that beautiful period known as twilight.  The descending darkness was such that I was barely able to discern the opposite side of the river.  But as the intruder was much closer, I was able to see him clearly, although from a rather poor vantage point.
He emerged almost soundlessly from the dark water, and stood looking around.  Then he quietly moved up to the line of bushes, where on the other side, mayhaps fifty feet away, I could see my flickering campfire, and the outline of my canvas tent.  He stood awhile unmoving, observing the campsite, then he must have realized I was not at the camp, for he began to glance quickly around the area.  But he never looked up.  Not finding me about, he made a sound, which resembled a squeak, then turned toward the river.  In seconds he was gone.

I have no recollection of how long I was stretched out on that branch, staring into the dark depths of the river where he had disappeared, but it was quite some time I’m sure.  I lie there until my buttocks quivered, and my arms trembled from the exertion of holding my body like a statue.  I lay frozen in wonder, awe and fear.  Suddenly I found myself in pitch blackness, and removing my person from that tree in the dark turned out to be an arduous task.  Once back at the fire, it didn’t take long to convince myself the incident hadn’t happened, as I busied myself in dinner preparations.

By morning, I had mostly forgotten the whole episode, until I went to check my throw-lines.  For there on the ground, right where I imagined he stood, were tracks I could not explain, nor, I was certain, could any man.  To further add to this impossibility, was another set of the same type tracks at the north end of my camp, although these were smaller than the ones I saw south.  So there had been two visitors watching my camp.  Being dutiful, I checked my four throw-lines and rebaited as needed, although there were no fishes on my lines.  Then, using my most powerful magnifying glass, I studied the tracks.  The southern tracks were exactly fourteen inches long, and ended in sharp points which dug into the mud.  They were two and one half inches wide at the rear, and flared out to nine inches wide at the front.  The north tracks were as these, although smaller overall.
Not having much faith in my first attempt at fishing, I had thoughtfully provisioned myself with enough tins of canned foods to last two men the period I would be camping.  As I sat frantically working the tin opener, (I never could do that gracefully, or neatly), I studied my notes, and resumed speculation on my recollections from the previous evening.

Recently, the young folks had begun to wear wooden fins on their feet to enhance swimming ability, and I had seen several variations of these so called ‘Flipper Fins’ in my travels, so I began to think someone had taken the concept one step further.  I had also seen the goggles some swimmers wore, and seen a drawing of a suit worn by men who went very deep into the oceans.  So, I surmised, why couldn’t someone invent a suit along those lines for use in the interior rivers?  I am nothing if not a logical person, and I didn’t place nearly the significance on the tracks that they required.  Not right then I didn’t.

Later during that day, after a nap, I again found myself staring at my notes.  This was the point in time when a recollection dawned on me, from the sighting of the previous evening.  Yes, it could well have been some type of suit he wore, with a hood apparatus of some type, which blocked my viewing his ear and hair.  And he did seem to be wearing some type of eye coverings.  Goggles possibly?  Yes.  When thought out along that line, perfectly logical and calm, it made sense.  But then why was I remembering clearly seeing the genitals of my visitor?  If he were wearing a suit, would the genitals be exposed, but the head and ears covered?  No, I surmised, they wouldn’t.  So I was back in my dilemma all afternoon.  But for several reasons, not the least being my personal sanity, I purposely made myself study for the rest of the day, until the light began to fade, and even then I lit the kerosene lantern to continue reading.

My lantern is very bright, and shielded on three sides, which further enhances the light shining forth from it.  As I read, I heard the bushes rustle near the spot where I imagined my visitor had stood, and before I thought about what I was doing, I quickly turned the lantern’s exposed face toward that area.  To my surprise, I saw eyes, large, bright eyes, then the bushes shook again and I heard a loud splash, and then nothing more but the chirping of crickets and the hooting of an owl.

Feeling my heart pounding from fright, I rose and cautiously approached the bushes, with my hand firmly on the grip of the small, cold revolver in my belt.  Indented into the mud were new tracks, identical to the ones from before, and dispersed over my tracks from that day, as well as fresh drops of water from the river to the bushes, where a respectable puddle had formed.  Back at the fire, I found solace that whomever they were, they were more afraid of me than I was them.  But I felt even better when I purposely removed my pistol and cleaned it.  I will never know why, but I removed one tin of the canned peaches from my canvas bag, opened it and feeling foolish, took it to where the visitor had been observing me.  I placed the opened tin on the ground and retreated.

That night my sleep was haunted by dreams, and just before dawn, I finally arose.  I made tea, and as the sky grew in brightness, I set off to check my throw-lines for the ever elusive fishes.  The surprise I received that morning left me dumbfounded.  I stood staring, mouth agape, and not one coherent thought being marshalled in my brain, at the three fish lying on the muddy bank of the river.  All my throw-lines were still in the water, and mysteriously, here were three live Catfish, each to weigh near five pounds.  All three Catfish were alive and flapping.  That someone had left them there intentionally was evidenced by the fact there were sticks pushed through each gill, to exit from the mouth, into the ground.

Searching around, I saw fresh water spots, coming and going from the river, and the can of peaches was nowhere in evidence.  By this time, there were so many of those fin like tracks along the bank, anyone would have been hard pressed to discern which ones were fresh.  Back at my campsite, as I tried to remember the instructions on the dressing and preparation of the fish, I began to formulate a plan.  Not being the imaginative type, I felt the simpler the better.

At five-thirty in the evening, I placed an open can of green beans where the fish had been left, and taking the lantern, climbed into the tree again to wait.  Sitting, unmoving for what seemed as if an eternity was thoroughly arduous, but right before total dark I was rewarded by a sight that almost caused me to fall from my perch into the river.  Maybe it was because the light seemed better, or possibly because I was this time expecting something to appear, I found myself staring down on an apparition that could not exist.

Naked.  Pale-grey skin, possibly three and a half feet tall, and totally female!  There could be no question of this being some type of diving suit, for I saw her all too clearly.  Aside from the obvious female features, and lack of body hair, her head appeared exactly as the first one I had seen, who was male.  Those long ‘Flipper Fins’ that had left so many tracks were not on her feet.  They WERE her feet.  Before the sunlight faded further, I glimpsed her hands, five fingers, but with a sort of webbing that extended to the last joint, and ending with a sharp nail or claw.

I had thought myself rather clever and prepared for this adventure, but at the sight of her standing there, staring off toward my camp, I found I could not move one muscle!  I had not even realized I was holding my breath until the other two emerged, and I gasped!  The female heard my startled response and quickly looked around.  Fortunately for me, the slight splashing of water from the other two as the emerged from the river helped conceal my location.  She did not glance up.

The two newcomers were male, and they walked slightly bow-legged to the female, who was staring down at the opened tin.  Stooping over, she extended one claw-tipped finger into the tin, placing the claw-tip in her mouth.  She performed a very unladylike action.  She spat.  After each male had a taste, showing obvious although various expressions of displeasure, the female turned the can upside down, then returned to the river.  The males followed.  By this time, it was almost too dark to see where they had disappeared into the inky, blackness of the slow, moving water.  Again, I sat in the tree, frozen, until the mosquitoes drove me from my perch to a smoky fire for relief.

Suddenly, I found myself foraging through my stores of tins in the tent.  I knew what I was searching for.  Sweet foods!  Fortunately there were many, as I have a fondness for them myself.  In several more heartbeats I had the lantern lit, and an opened tin in my hand on its way to the very spot she had been standing.  Back at my tent, I further surprised myself as I realized I had attributed a name to her.  I was thinking of her as Michelle, although I had not given conscious thought to a name.  And I had no inkling of names for the two males.

As I stirred the fire, I began to think over my impossible situation.  I felt I was possibly going over the edge, losing whatever hold I’d ever had on my sanity, which was tenacious at the best of times.  I further convinced myself, when in the morning I found myself overjoyed at the missing can, and one nice fish left there in its place!  I threw the green bean can into the bushes, and left the beans on the ground for the ever industrious ants.  So, my visitors had returned and accepted the sweet tin of applesauce, and left a nice Catfish in trade!

I slept early in the afternoon, and excitedly placed a few tins of sweets on my side of the bushes before darkness fell.  I had the fire built-up, and the lantern fueled, and I would sit and read until they came.  I read a biology textbook, but kept my eyes glancing over toward the bushes all evening.  Sometime later I fell asleep.  I’m not sure what awoke me, although it could have been any number of causes, not the least the dozens of mosquito bites on my face and neck, or the throbbing pain in both my cramped legs, or the terrible crick in my neck from my hanging head, but I awoke knowing I was not alone.

At the edge of my vision, I could see three sets of those long-flippered feet, but I was afraid to move, even though the pesky mosquitoes were savagely dining on me!  Then something lightly touched my face, and momentarily drove the pests away.  It was a tree branch in one of their clawed hands, waving the bugs away.  I slowly raised my head until I sat regarding them.  They stayed in place, the female holding the branch like a weapon in front of her.  Softly I said thank-you, and all three took one step backward simultaneously, then she made a squeak, which was echoed by the males.  One of the males stepped bravely forward, and sat a tin of pears on the ground in front of me, then quickly stepped back.  In confusion, I blinked several times at the tin.  In my thoughtful fugue earlier, I had forgotten to open the tins!

Slowly, I reached into my pocket for the small opener, and began to open the tin.  As I worked the opener around the lid, all three flippered visitors squatted to observe the activity.  Their faces reflected incredulity, as children watching fireworks in the night sky.  I purposely slowed my movement so as to have more time in which to examine this amazing trio! 

They were certainly not children, as witnessed my amazed eyes.  From the way their bodies were formed, they appeared fully matured adults, although lacking any hair.  Mature adults?  Yes, I could see that.  But adult what’s?  Humans?  Possible, but not probable.  They lived after all, in a great river.

I studied them from the feet up, as unobtrusively as possible.  The long feet showed evidence of what looked like bones going out to the toes, but there were no toes, just a wide, thick, fleshy substance, ending in many sharp, downward, pointed claws.  The claws were white, and appeared much as those you would see on a young dog.  There were fourteen claws on each flipper.  The ankles resembled a human beings, as well as the heel, and on up past the knees, and all the way up to the neck.  For all intents and purposes they resembled any boy or girl, from ankles to neck.

After a cursory glance at the males, I studied the female, Michelle.  This was not a young woman’s body at all.  Her body showed scars, and what appeared to be stretch marks around the abdomen.  As if she’d had a child, in the past.  This triggered another thought, and I perused the males carefully.  If what I was envisioning was correct, one of the males was a much older version of the other.  Was Michelle then the mother of the young one, and this male, whom I’ll call Tom, the father?  Yes, I thought.  That has to be the strait of it.  They are the parents to the young one, whom I’ll refer to as Dick.

I became rather unsettled as I studied their heads, rounded, much more than ours, and without ears.  Where the ears should be located were three slits on each side, and these undulated in and out with the rise and fall of their breasts.  Were these then gills of a sort?  Gills, which worked either in or out of the water?  I should never know.

The eyes were a startling revelation as well.  They appeared as though covered with a glasslike substance, and when blinked, the twin lids met perfectly in the center.  But the unsettling effect I was experiencing came from where the eyes were set, much further apart than any human eyes could ever be.  They had no eyebrow ridges and this added to the impression the large, glass eyes had been somehow pushed into the round head.  Although not pushed far enough, for they did appear rather bulging.  My impression was they could see almost behind them without moving their heads!  Of course, I noticed Michelle’s eyes were a greenish color, whereas the males were brownish.  And the eyes appeared to be filled with clear water behind the glasslike lenses.

The noses were small and exquisitely formed, much as a newborn infant’s nose.  The lips were full and looked soft, although a bit paler than their pale-grey skins.  But any remotely human resemblance was removed by their teeth, the mere sight of which made me gratefully aware of my revolver in my belt.  The only thing I had ever seen that resembled their teeth were those of the giant predator fish species, such as Northern Pike or Muskellunge, and possibly some of the stuffed deep-sea denizens I had seen before.  The teeth appeared rounded and closely packed together, ending in very sharp points, not all of which pointed the same way.

To suppress the shudder that ran through me at the sight of their teeth, I busily finished with the lid, lifting it off for their inspection.  It was painfully obvious I was in the company of three beings whose bodies were made to rend and tear flesh.  Their hands were very human in appearance, except for the obvious webbing extending to the last joint, and again, those sharp, white claws, although there was only one claw at the end of each digit.

While first Michelle, and then the males tentatively tasted the juice, I carefully took a step away from the trio.  What if they harbored cannibalistic tendencies?  Could I possibly stop them from rending me asunder?  I heartily doubted it.  Trying to stop just one of them, with my small pistol, let alone all three of them, gave me pause for thought!  Then another small gasp escaped me as I watched Michelle spear a pear on her claw, and deposit the pear into her mouth, showing me her tongue.  There was nothing remotely human about the tongue.  None at all.  The tongue appeared to be a ridge of flesh which rose up a slight ways from her bottom jaw, but was not loose, as ours are.  I found myself staring over by the fire, where one Catfish rested on a stick, and I realized their tongues were identical to that cooked fish!

I admit, I had to steel myself to prevent my running away right then.  The only reason I didn’t, was because they seemed satisfied with the tin of pears, and, I reasoned, they had certainly never made a threatening gesture towards me.  Carefully I went to the fire, and slowly began to add more wood.  They continued eating, but I was well aware of their glassy eyes following my every movement.  When I finished, I turned to Michelle, and I slowly smiled at her.

To my surprise, she gave me a totally human smile in return sans teeth, then rose up in one fluid movement, turning away.  The males followed, and so did I, all the way to the water, where they entered and disappeared, without even turning back towards me.  Once again, for a long while, I found myself standing in the darkness, staring down at an even darker area I knew was the great Missouri River.

I returned to camp, resolved to write down my observations of the evening, and I did.  I fell asleep, shortly before dawn.  It was after ten when I awoke, and found another fish.  But this perfect specimen was not only on the rock near my fire, but also gutted out, and propped on a stick, just as my cooked fish had been last evening.  My cursory examination of this new trade fish showed me identical marks along its dorsal fins, on both sides of the back, and with a start I realized what they were.  Teeth marks!  Did my visitors catch their fish this way, or just hold them in between their teeth for transport?  Again, I would never know.

That evening, I nervously awaited their return.  I had convinced myself I should study them with all the objectivity I possessed, regardless of any personal risks to my person.  I had written in my notes that quite possibly I had stumbled across an unknown life-form.  Another race living on our world, unbeknownst to modern science.  That thought alone stayed my excitement that eve. 

By midnight I was disheartened, and by three am I was totally despaired.  They were not coming.

Then I heard a small splashing, the rustling of the bushes, and my pulse quickened.  From the river rushed one of the creatures.  The youngest one, I am sure, the one I called Dick.  He appeared extremely agitated and his breathing came in raspy gasps which I clearly identified as escaping from those slots on his head.  But more noticeable were the slashes in evidence along his pale-grey body, some of which had began to bleed as he rushed up to within two feet of me. 
I stared at the bright, red blood flowing from twenty short, shallow lacerations across his chest area.  He seemed unaware of them, and as soon as he had my eye contact, he began to beckon to me to follow him.  As I had been reading, the lantern was lit, and without thought, I hurried after him, toward the river.

Once there, he entered without hesitation, and before long all I saw was his hand above water beckoning to me, then his head broke the surface as he swam slowly south with the lazy current.  I did not follow, for I could not swim.  But I did run along the bank trying to keep him in sight with my lantern, until I ran across what appeared to be an impenetrable wall of brush and trees.  The last I saw of him was his head and outstretched hand as he faded from the light, going south.

Back at camp, I was a thoroughly frustrated man for the rest of that night.  At the first hint of daylight, I was on my way along the bank again.  When I found my wall of brush and trees, I knew I could not have followed him in the dark through there, as I was barely able to transgress the thicket in daylight.  I pushed on for hours, until around noon I came upon a wide creek.  My heart was in my throat as I surveyed what traversed the water there.

It was a new, four-strand, barbed-wire fence, stretching from one side of the creek to the other.  But what was caught on the fence was what transfixed me.  A hand.  A webbed hand, just barely out of the water, entangled in the shiny wire.
Without thought, I waded into the dirty water, and with much relief found it only waist deep.  Gingerly I touched the hand.  It was cold.  With fear in my heart, I gently felt along the hand and barbed-wire, for what I feared would be found there, for I recognized that hand.  Michelle.

Abruptly the hand came loose from the barbed-wire, and I grabbed for the cold appendage, lest it sink.  There was no body attached, and I tenderly released the hand and watched it sink from sight.  The hand appeared to have been torn off, or possibly bitten off at the wrist.  For over an hour I tenderly probed both sides of that fence, and the entire creek I could wade, using a long branch, but found no other remains.  As I sat on the bank, I was surprised to note I was crying.  Furthermore, as I trudged soppingly all the way back to camp, I found a rather steady trickle of tears running from my eyes.

Every night, for the rest of my stay, I placed the opened tins out, but to no avail.  They never returned.

The day I had to return to civilization, I placed all the sweet tins around my campsite, and left the tin opener with them, then trudged with a heavy heart to the rendezvous point.  My friend and his father were there at the appointed time, and were surprised at my emotional state.  They had expected me to be elated at my return to the comforts of the city, but clearly I was not.  They were kind enough to not press me for details.

Over the years I have returned to that spot on horseback and later by car, and always camped alone, and left the tins out.  But always to no avail.
I return there more often now, as the Corp of Engineers have harnessed the great river, and today hold it within its banks.  Where I once camped, is now right below what is the I-80 Bridge between Iowa and Nebraska.  The creek where I found her hand is long since part of a cultivated field, but I can still see the area as it was back then.

I’m now 92 years old, and this fantastic adventure occurred in the year 1918.  A long time ago, I know, but I still remember Michelle.