Berrygnash Part 4
The Haphazard Journal of My Journey to the Heart of Dixie and the “Natural State” in Search of Cryptids–
The Recovered Journal Entries by Hitty Sassy
Saturday, September 6th The Search for the Berrygnash, continued.
The day’s excitement and perhaps the sun’s heat caused Nell and me to lay aside our watchfulness for a brief time; barely the time for a thought to breeze through our wooden heads. When Nell slid down the rock to paddle her feet in the cool water, we hardly remarked on the dampness already present on the stone. Foolish dollies!
Glancing once more at the saturation, my heart began to pound. I splashed water on my face, to animate my flagging concentration.
Rapidly drying on the rock, the shape familiar even as it evaporated was again the footprint of a three-toed being!
Damp meant close! The cryptid had passed this way and not too very long thence!
The discovery could well be within our grasp. We abandoned our rest and Nell leapt from the rock into the brush.
Following closely and quietly, watching only the top of Nell’s dark curls bobbing above the grasses, I proceeded to the edge of the bluff. I came up behind her and surmised by the set of her shoulders that she indeed had espied the fresh tracks of, could it be, Granny Lavender’s Berrygnash? Nell’s head disappeared from my view as she silently slid over the side of the rocks and down into the scrub; I hastened to follow.
The vegetation obscured all but the rocks and monstrous trees now looming above us. Turning my head from side to side in order to get my bearings, I briefly caught the scent of a smoky fire. Fire is rarely a blessing to a wooden doll, but fear of fire could not replace the drama of this possible encounter with an unknown species. The fire of discovery coursed through me and propelled me forward, fairly toppling Nell as we emerged from the grass and onto a rocky terrace.
We stood at the entrance of a mossy grotto that wandered deeply into bluffs of the Denton Family Hold.
The cool breath of the cave swept past me; even in the heat, I shivered. The crackling of flames brought my head around. There, at the entrance of the grotto, burned a fire built with brush and lichen.
The smoke waved in response to the exhalation from the depths. Nell and I were transfixed. No wooden doll would dare create such a torment! Was this fire then constructed by human hands? Or was this evidence of a sophisticated cryptid?
As our eyes became accustomed to the mellow darkness, they strayed further into the cave. Walking into the lichen-hung chamber, we were again astonished to find what looked to be a dining table made of natural stone and set with delectable comestibles harvested from the forest.
I admit, at first I felt as though someone was pulling my peg, making me the butt of some joke. But looking at Nell’s face, I could see she was as much mystified as I – she was not the perpetrator.
We gave our attention to the assembled foodstuffs. A dainty dried mushroom lay near the table.
I had often heard my travel hosts praise the flavor of certain dried fungi – who could the occupant of the cave be, that also enjoyed this sort of fare? Apparently, we had missed our quarry again, for the grotto appeared empty; hastily abandoned.
My spirits sank. Perhaps I had not been as stealthy as I supposed and had frightened away the inhabitant; whoever that might be.
The fire had died back and the light of the afternoon began also to wane. The sun would soon fall behind the western mountains and leave us to find our way home in darkness. I was confident in Nell’s ability to return us home safely, and I also was convinced that night in the Boston Mountains might provide for some intriguing cryptid hunting. We were weary, however; the long sigh that escaped from my lips must have been immense, for it caused the fire’s embers to flare, as well as the hanging lichen to sway.
Or so I thought.
The flame that had licked up, consuming my sigh, revealed an odd glow from deep within the cave.
The billowing lichen made the rich, vermillion glow wink in and out. I felt, at first, rather than heard, a teasingly familiar rumble. My sap turned to water in my tissues…the mosses were not moving in response to my weary breath, but moving of their own accord! It took merely a second to record in my mind the truth of Granny Lavender’s stories.
I was staring into the open heart of the Berrygnash! (click to enlarge!)
It was rather more than two exhausted wooden dolls could apprehend and, startled, we gave in to our fears. Nell, fleet of foot, ran from the creature as fast as her pegs could manage. I felt for a moment quite faint with the excitement and swayed on my wooden heels, falling back, back into the arms of the Berrygnash.
A Note from Editor Jane:
Should any of the readers of this journal suppose for a moment that Hitty Sassy and Hitty Nell displayed anything but the utmost courage in this instance, I would beg you to reconsider. Hittys are without doubt the most courageous of dolls; Ancestor Hitty bears witness to this, as do the adventures of countless Hittys around the world. One can justifiably forgive them both for a momentary lapse in fortitude, indeed; one could argue that Sassy’s collapse was due to the remarkable discovery of the Berrygnash alone.
The heart of a Hitty belies her six and one-quarter inch height, for the heart of a Hitty contains all that is noble in Dollkind and those that love Dollkind.
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I have no recollection of what occurred after succumbing. I remember only the rumbling laugh of the Berrygnash echoing across the Boston Mountains as I awoke atop the bluff, Nell chaffing my pegs. I had an odd sensation of peace and affirmation. My urge towards discovery was unabated, but I felt no need to further trouble such an astounding, gracious creature. My task was complete.
Our group made its way back to the comfort of the cabin and there was much animated discussion around the dinner table that evening, to be sure. Mountain-folk may be given to embellishment, but I could hardly see need of “fish-stories” in this case. The truth was, by itself, enough to excite the imagination of every Hitty assembled. I trust that future readers of this journal will themselves in their hearts affirm the truth of these observations and recollections, treasuring the tales of Granny Lavender and the secret of the Berrygnash.
A note to future readers from myself, that is, Hitty Sassy:
Should you wander into the Ozarks and find yourself in the company of the redoubtable Lavender, I beg you – listen closely to her tales, for story-tellers, like the Berrygnash, are endangered beings. When Lavender closes her eyes at the Final Winter, Dollkind will have lost a great gift. I urge Hittys everywhere, whatever path they have chosen in life, cryptid-hunter, seamstress, explorer, governess, aviatrix or housekeeper, to become a gift such as Lavender. Live your lives boldly, craft your own tales and, most importantly, share your stories with Hitty-kind, Dollkind and persons that love them.
**************END of PART 4********************