The Baylis brothers, Curly Bennett, Hickman Holmely, Petey Demers, and I were on the bank of the Thames River with a considerable good haul of fish. As so often happens when things are slow and the sun is warm and the fish have tired of our night crawlers and minnows and have moved to deeper waters, the conversation turned to one of our favourite subjects: the South Woods Lion Man.

If, on a Thursday morning, one were to start relating all of the rumours about him, the tales would not be exhausted until the following Wednesday afternoon.

There were as many theories and stories about who or what he was as there were different bolts of cloth in Curly’s mother’s shop. And the tales were just as colourful.

The only things that all those rumours and legends had in common were that the Lion Man was over a century old, escaped from slavery in the southern United States of America, spoke no English or other civilized tongue, wanted nothing to do with other human beings, was or soon would be a vicious murderer, was as mad as a hatter, and should be avoided at all costs.

The Baylis boys were the authority on the subject. They were the only ones to have actually laid eyes upon this mystery man of the pine forest that lies south between Chatham and Buxton.

Buster stretched the huge perch he had caught between his upheld hands.

“So, lads, the fish have quit biting and you need to line up to take your punishment. There’s no doubt that this little beauty makes me the winner today!”

Whoever caught the day’s biggest fish was allowed to punch each of the rest of us once in the arm as hard as he chose to. Buster hadn’t won in quite a while, so we all knew he was sorely excited about getting revenge. His punches would be harsh.

Hickman said, “Not so fast. Yours is longer, but my bass is heavier.”

Buster said, “This isn’t a forensics competition, Hickman. You can’t talk your way into having the biggest fish. Fellows, tell him.”

After hefting each of the fishes, I felt that not only was the perch longer, it was heavier; plus, even though it had already died, it was a much more impressive fish than the bass that wiggled weakly on Hickman’s stringer.

I passed both fish to Bucky and said, “Sorry, Hickman, Buster’s is bigger.”

Bucky said, “I don’t think so. This bass weighs a bit more; it’s the biggest,” and passed the fish to Curly.

Curly opined, “Naw, the perch is heaviest.”

Buster smiled. “Ha! Two to three. Line up and take your punches like the men you boys pretend to be.”

Hickman said, “Wait. We haven’t asked Petey. Let’s wake him up; his vote could make a draw.”

Petey said from under his straw hat, “I’m not asleep.”

He propped himself on one elbow, squinted to look at the fish, then stood.

Hickman handed the bass to Petey.

Instead of giving his opinion, Petey took the fish to the water, squatted down, pulled the groggy fish off the stringer, gently put it in the river, and kept his hand underneath until it regained enough strength to swim sadly away from the bank.

Hickman wanted to complain, but this was Petey, and no one was certain how long his new peaceful attitude was going to last, so Hickman’s silence was a wise choice.

Bucky asked, “Uh, why’d you let him go, Petey?”

“Her,” Petey said. “She was heaviest because she’s full of eggs. Leave her be until she lays ’em.”

Curly said, “You’re getting to be more of a wild woodsman every day, Petey. I bet if the South Woods Lion Man ever retires, you’ll apply to take over his job.”

Petey smiled before he pulled the straw hat over his face and stretched back out. We all laughed.

Bucky said, “Petey wouldn’t get the position. He’s too young, too short, and nowhere near crazy enough.”

Curly said, “Plus, Petey’s got white blood in him!”

All eyes went to Petey. Petey never encourages any conversations about his ancestry, but there are times when he’s more sensitive than others. We gave Curly quizzical looks that he’d risk riling Petey. He’d apologized for his previous rude remarks and the newly kind Petey had accepted, but perhaps this was too much. It appeared Curly wouldn’t be content until he’d poked the sleeping bear into a rage.

Curly said, “What? I ain’t said nothing wrong, did I, Petey? Saying that somebody’s got white blood in ’em is the highest compliment you can give.”

Hickman said, “So what does that make me, Curly Bennett?”

Curly said, “Aw, come on, Hicks, half the time I don’t even notice you’re a black boy. You’re just like the rest of us to me.”

Hickman said, “You’re all kinds of ignorant, Curly. You best tread lightly what you talk about or I’ll give you a second thumping.”

I tried to direct the conversation to subjects less explosive. “Buster, that’s not true, is it? Petey is larger than most full-grown men. It seems impossible that the South Woods Lion Man is bigger than he.”

Both Baylis boys blurted, “The Lion Man’s a whole lot bigger!”

None of us believed everything Buster and Bucky said about their encounter with the South Woods Lion Man, but the absolute sincerity and panicked air that overtook them when they talked about the meeting showed they had indeed seen something horrifying in the woods one evening last September.

Hickman saw where this conversation was now heading and said, “Here we go again.”

Buster said, “You can act scornful only because you haven’t seen him. Tell ’im, Bucky.”

“He’s right. If you saw what he really looks like, you wouldn’t be so bold.”

I fanned the flames. “But come on now. Snakes? For his hair?”

They had told us the stories were true; the Lion Man had snakes where his hair should have been.

Buster said, “Scoff if you must, but he is a modern-day Medusa.”

Hickman said, “If that’s true and he does have Medusa’s hair, why weren’t the two of you turned to stone when you saw him?”

Bucky and Buster exchanged a glance. Perhaps they’d already given that question a great deal of thought. Or maybe not.

Bucky said, “Well, we figure it’s ’cause we had the good sense not to look for long. We each took a quick glance before we ran. I bet you only get turned to stone if you look at him and stare.”

Buster said, “Bucky’s right. I looked a little longer than he did and I swear my left big toe started stiffening and hasn’t been able to bend at the joint since that day!”

Curly said, “I heard that he carries a hundred-year-old oak tree for a club, and he’s fast enough to run a deer down and rip the throat out of its neck with his teeth!”

Hickman said, “I heard that too, and that if the deer is dead before it hits the ground, he won’t eat it. He won’t eat anything that’s not screaming and fighting for its life. He steals the animal’s spirit that way and becomes more like it. That’s why he can walk through the forest like a ghost.”

Buster said, “And he’s about eight feet tall! And I know it’s true that he’s an escaped slave from the United States of America. He’s still toting the chains ’round with him! They’re thick as the chains that hold the elephants down at the circus.”

Bucky said, “Yup, and the chains are made out of the gold the Lion Man stole from his old master before he slit his throat! His master put a curse on him just before he died and now the Lion Man can’t spend the gold but has to wear it around his waist and ankles forever!”

Hickman said, “Pshaw!”

Bucky said, “No! I swear! Why else would he still be carrying those chains?”

I am not a coward and like instead to think of myself as sensible. Some of the stories seemed far-fetched, but Father said that, twenty years ago, nothing was more far-fetched than imagining there would be carriages that raced down roads without horses or oxen or any other type of animal pulling them. One has to keep an open mind until the truth unfolds.

Since he is the wisest man I know, I’d asked Father about the stories the Baylis boys told right after they met the Lion Man.

Father had said, “Alvin, it’s human nature to embellish. Don’t blame the Baylis boys. That’s what naturally happens to any story over time, especially an eyewitness story. I had a professor in law school who lectured us on eyewitnesses and told us that ninety-nine percent of the time, they are worse than worthless.”

“But how is that possible, Father? They actually saw him. With their own eyes.”

“Their observations, like all people’s, evolve and change with time. Memory is imperfect.”

Father went on, “For example, will you have a better recollection of this conversation tomorrow or six months from now?”

“Tomorrow, of course.”

“Right, our memories are always in the process of falling apart; they’re constantly fading. Keep that in mind when people tell you about the past. Your friends aren’t necessarily being malicious or trying to frighten or deceive you. They’re probably doing their best to recall, but even the sharpest memory becomes more unreliable with the passage of time.”