Moony was a retard.

Not exactly politically correct terminology and not exactly accurate either but there's no part of saying it that way that you wouldn't understand is there? He was slower than a broke down truck and about the same size. Besides, no need to be politically correct up here, this isn't civilization in the usual sense, this is some forgotten backwoods acreage of Northern Michigan which somehow resembles some uncharted woodland in the Old South. People here don't refer to themselves as...people. They call themselves...folk. You know you've crossed some hidden but significant demarcation when people somehow transmute into folk.

You take the old guy CJ. CJ would say something like, 'Folk up these parts don't take kindly to strangers,' or something like that. He once said to me, 'Now they ain't no nigger folk in these parts, never was, never should be neither far as I'm concerned.' Old time, red neck, shotgun-toting brilliance...run for your life, right?

Not so fast.

As fortune would have it, my ever-peculiar great grandpa bought sixty acres and a log cabin up here seventy-seven years ago and its been handed down several times to eventually fall into my sole possession.

So here we come, down the rutted laneway, in my Corvette, making for the main gate and low and behold there he is, Mister Mensa himself standing there, same way I left him last October; no shirt, no shoes, no shame. I wouldn’t kid you about Moony. His real name was Richard Troy Moon. He was CJ's grand son, but he was forty years old, if a day, half bald, half clothed and half brained with a mountainous big belly that hung out well over his stretchy gym shorts.

I had Misty in the car with me. Misty, of course I realize her name isn't quite perfect, is it? When I first met her and she told me her name was Misty I was totally turned on by it and thought it was something. Now all I do is explain to people (not folk) that, yes, it's her real name and no, she's not a stripper.

In truth, despite the problematic handle, I really cared for Misty. I'd skated through a few since the divorce and certainly wasn't expecting a hard fall when we began dating. Falling for the name was no surprise I've always had a weakness for provocative names, but falling for the woman was unplanned. She gave rise in me to feelings I'd long accepted as permanent past tense. She really was a beautiful creature, almost perfect.

I wasn't sure how Misty would react to the Moondog. I tried to brief her on the way up to reduce the shock but you can never really prepare a woman to meet a creepy, drooling, shirtless, slow man of the northern woods.

"Is that him?" she asked as we inched by, bouncing down the hill in my ZR1.

"Yup."

"Yuck, what's he spitting?"

"Chewing tobacco, he's always got a huge wad going."

"It's dripping down all over his chin...and his stomach."

I gave Misty my best I tried to warn you look.

"Oh my god, he just waved at us. Should I wave back?" She asked.

"What the hell. He knows we're here now."

Despite the out-of-time locals I adored the cottage. We were nestled beside a small inland lake and not only was our sixty acres covered in old pine forest with a mix of poplar, oak and birch, including many white birches but it was surrounded by larger bush beyond. The forest went on endlessly for miles. It was wild and teaming with life; countless deer, foxes, raccoons, beavers, even coyotes and black bear. Moony would always give us updates on bear sightings.

Whenever I'd come to the cabin I would sublimely forget about being a lawyer. I would forget about all the egomaniacal, buffoonish and pain-in-the-ass partners at my law firm, especially that predatory playboy loudmouth office-rooster Carl Burke. In fact the only other lawyer I'd bothered to like these days was Misty. She was the most non-lawyerly lawyer I'd ever met. It's hard to explain but let's just say she's refreshing. Anyway, at the cottage I could roam the woods and the myriad trails we'd sculpted in that hilly terrain over the years and be something closer to the guy I really am. I had long wanted Misty to meet that guy and was excited to show her my little place up north.

We unpacked and got ourselves organized. Misty wiped down the counters, loaded the fridge and set the table. I prepped the fire pit outside for a late night bon fire as we instinctively fell into our traditional man-woman wilderness roles for the occasion. With evening coming on, I went inside to open a bottle of wine.

"What's this?" asked Misty holding up the arrowhead she found on the mantle.

As soon as she said it I, once again, remembered the date. I was so on about showing Misty the cottage I'd temporarily forgotten. "Actually that's a bit of local folklore you're holding in your hand."

"How's that?"

"Well, there's a story, or legend, that goes with that there arrowhead," I said.

"Sounds interesting. So tell me about it."

"Okay. Tonight, by the fire I will tell you an Indian tale that you will never forget. In fact you may even wish that I never told you about it at all."

"Oh my." Misty shuddered and reached for her sweater as if the very thought gave her a chill.

I poured out two glasses of California grapy goodness and we went for a walk around the main trail. It was eight o'clock in the evening, middle of May, and the sun was setting across the lake. It took us twenty-seven minutes, or one glass of wine, to circle the woods. When we got back to the cabin, we went inside together to replenish our cups.

We immediately returned outside to light the fire. Misty sat down while I squatted and lit the kindling.

"What's that sound?" she asked.

I stopped and listened. It was a thudding, pounding sound, ominous, foreboding, like earth tremors from the movie Jurassic Park. I checked my wine to see if it was rippling. Then we heard heavy breathing. It sounded like a grizzly bear with a lung disorder, maybe pneumonia, or a King Dong lodged in its windpipe. It was getting dark and hard to see. With the fire now roaring it was even harder to see into the woods but that's where the sound was emanating from and it was getting closer. Finally it thundered into the fire light. Its face was humungous and its eyes were a mile apart with gaping mouth, hissing breath and brown hideous slush all over its buttery chin and bald stomach. It was Moony.

"Hi, Tom," said Moony.

Misty was frightened but she didn't flinch.

"Hey there, Moon Man. How're you doing?" I said.

"Who's that?" said Moony looking at Misty.

"That's my friend, Misty."

"Misty. That's a silly name." Moony was wheezing.

"I see you've been walking in the woods," I said.

"Hi, Misty," said Moony. He spit some brown juice into the fire.

"Hello," she said back.

"Don't go in the woods after dark," said Moony "It's getting dark now."

"Yeah? Why do you say that?" asked Misty.

"He's out here, looking to take his revenge," said Moony.

"Who is?" asked Misty.

"Jiibay. He's awake and craving vengeance."

I looked at Misty and smiled. She understood the look.

I was embarrassed that Moony showed up on our first night, all naked and smelly and talking weirdness. I just wanted him to leave. Of course, he rambled on and recounted every bear sighting over the entire winter. Apparently one was spotted sniffing through the ashes in our fire pit in early December right before the big snows. He also shared that three weeks ago he found a dead bear in the woods only a hundred yards into the bush.

"It's a bad sign when you find a dead bear in the woods," he said, "You never find a dead bear in the woods, not in a whole lifetime. Even CJ never seen a dead bear on the ground."

"Is it still there?" asked Misty.

"Just some bones," said Moony blushing at the pretty woman.

"But it's no good to see a dead bear. It's Jiibay."

I really wanted Moony to scram. So I told him we were going inside to have our supper and maybe we'd see him again Saturday or Sunday. He got the message and started to leave. "Well, I better go home. I gotta go home and pray," he said.

"See ya later, Moon Man," I said.

"Gotta pray for the Pope. He's sick, ya know. Did you know the Pope was sick?"

"I thought I read that, yes."

"Is he better? Did you hear if he’s better yet?"

"I haven't heard."

"Well, I better go home and pray for him then."

"Okay, Moony, see ya later, guy."

"I gotta little altar in my bedroom, so I can kneel down and pray proper-ways. I keep the Pope’s picture there next to Jesus Christ. I burn candles too."

"Okay, Moony, good night then."

Finally the tobacco monster left us in peace. But I could see the whole episode threw Misty for a toss. She was unsettled. Moony was a creepy guy. He'd freak out a Marine Corps sergeant on a first meet. He gave an impression of one who could inflict harm and he'd be anyone's first suspect in a bad situation. Accepting Moony was an acquired thing, even I didn't trust him completely and I'd known him since we were both kids - over thirty years.

We believed he was really leaving because we heard his heavy breathing fade as he walked toward his house – CJ's house - across the meadow and up by the road. Immediately Misty asked what he was talking about and is it really rare to find a dead bear and who's this Jiibay he kept referring to? What's that all about?

I tried to calm her down. But nothing I said seemed to work so I used wine instead. I kept her glass full and figured a little viticultural sedation would prove helpful at lowering prevailing stress levels. We grilled some steaks, went inside to eat them with a salad of fresh greens and fire-baked potatoes. Supper was nice and then later we returned to the fire pit with yet another wine refill.

The moon was dead above us now and it was approaching midnight.

Misty pulled her sweater tight and smothered herself with a blanket she brought out to mitigate the cool night air. She tucked her legs up under herself, all curled up on her lawn chair. She then commanded me to tell her the Indian tale I had promised to tell.