The Bush Man

We call him the Bush Man because that's where he appears. Every sixty-one days, he emerges from the oleander on the southern edge of town. No one sees him cross through the bush, though many have tried. Every sixty-one days, a determined group of busybodies gathers on either side of the oleander hoping to shed some light on the mystery of the Bush Man, but to no avail. We don't know where he comes from or where he goes. Just that, every sixty-one days, he appears from the oleander in the morning and disappears into it in the evening.

His clothing is made of hemp. I suppose that's not too surprising, given his nature. But he takes the 'all-natural' thing a step further: leaves grow from his shirt; tree bark protects his legs; a cloak of vines hangs from his shoulders; a crown of twigs circles his head. Yet this mighty king of the wild walks barefoot on pebbles and pine needles.

After he emerges from his oleander, he takes a second to survey his court. Then without acknowledging a single person, he begins his trek into town. Slow, measured steps; eyes aimed straight ahead; head held high; the Bush Man leads a solemn march up Main Street. His disciples trail behind, but none dare speak to him. Some have tried, to be sure. Once in a while, a brave – or perhaps foolish – person will ask the Bush Man a question. ‘Where are you from?’ ‘Who are you?’ ‘Why every sixty-one days?’

Upon being asked, the Bush Man will pause. He takes his eyes off the road and sets them on yours. They bore straight into the depths of your soul, those eyes. And yet no one can agree on what color they are. Black? Blue? Green? No one can agree. No one knows. All anyone can remember of his penetrating stare is the feeling of being examined. He stares into your core, tears into it. He discovers your true person, the person you have hidden from the world. Without once speaking to you, he knows exactly who you are. He knows you better than you know yourself.

Not once has any person been able to withstand his stare. Time upon time, I have seen brave men walk up to him with a question, only to be chased away into silence. And when the Bush Man is very and truly satisfied that the temporary annoyance has been dealt with, he starts once again on his journey through town. His destination is always, always the General Store across from the church. And his purchase is always, always the same. Bill who owns the General Store prepares the Bush Man’s crate of supplies every sixtieth night: a can of sardines; a length of rope; a bag of flour; a tin of nails; and a single square of chocolate.

The crowd waits outside as the Bush Man makes his purchase. Everyone in town knows his order; everyone in town knows that he pays with a single gold bullion. After enough years of pestering, Bill revealed this to us. But so many questions remain. Where did the Bush Man find these bullions? Why does he have so many? Why sardines, rope, flour, nails, and a single square of chocolate? We ask Bill these questions after the Bush Man leaves, but each time Bill refuses to answer. Most likely, Bill is as clueless as the rest of us.

His items bought, the Bush Man exits the General Store, carrying his crate of goods with the same care one uses to carry a baby. These items, strange as they may be, are precious to him. And so, they are precious to the crowd. The people part to let him pass safely, then close again behind him. The solemn procession walks down Main Street to the oleander at the southern edge of town. When it reaches the oleander, the Bush Man stops. He turns. For the first time of his journey, he acknowledges the existence of his disciples. He nods once, still without a single word. Then, just as he came, he steps back into the oleander and melts into the bush.

The spell breaks. The crowd presses into the oleander, circles it, hoping to see where the Bush Man disappears to. But not a single soul has yet to discover the truth.

This sixty-first day, however, I intend to change that. For today, I will follow the Bush Man through the oleander and discover, once and for all, where he disappears to. This morning, I waited with all the rest of the faithful by the oleander. I watched as the Bush Man emerged from his hibernation. I ignored the overwhelming urge to follow him to the General Store. Instead, I entered the oleander and hid and waited. I ignored the twigs scratching at my body, the toxic leaves brushing against my mouth. I waited, with shallow breaths and growing determination. For an eternity, have I waited; but I will gladly wait an eternity more.

Fortunately, this eternity has an end. The Bush Man appears in the distance, then wave upon wave of faithful follower. He approaches the oleander, each excruciating step closer than the last. Then he stops. He pauses for longer than normal; his eyes pierce through the oleander, and I shrink back. For a tense second, I fear he’s seen me. But to my relief, he finally turns and nods at the crowd.

And he steps back.

He glides past me, still facing the crowd, still cradling his precious wares. The twigs and leaves part and swallow him. I do my best to chase him, but though the oleander accepts him, it rejects me. It pushes back against me, and soon I can only see his face. Now I know he has seen me. Those damned eyes bore into me, force me to come to terms with the person I have hidden from society. And before the oleander swallows him completely, I see my own face reflected back at me.

I lose sight of the Bush Man, but I keep pushing through. Finally, the oleander concedes to my efforts. I go deeper and deeper...and then I escape. I burst through to the other side. A small crowd of people eagerly greet me, only to turn away in harsh disappointment when they realize who I’m not. The Bush Man is nowhere to be seen. I was only a few feet behind him; how could I lose him? And yet, here I am, and here the Bush Man is not.

I walk back up to town. In sixty-one days, I’ll try again.