There is a spirit that lives in the northwestern forests. Among the deep dense foliage of fir and hemlock, red cedar and and spruce. A spirit so haunting only a fleeting glimpse of the war paint and piercing eyes are seen. Bokus watches over the forest and stays hidden until his territory is invaded,
With cautious steps the man travels quietly over the forest floor. The last glow of moonlight glistens on the stream he walks along. Mulch and damp earth seep through his leather moccasins, cooling the man’s feet uncomfortably. The rushing creek splashes against the rocks, splattering on his knees as he approaches the deep whirlpool of green where the bass lives. He knows the habits of the Large One. He has seen its tail on summer days and lost his bait all too often. Today he will take the prize. Today his family will welcome the feast he will bring home. Too many moons he’s waited, always late. Today he’s come before the sunrise, before the pinks of the sky dance with the white of the foamy creek.
The man inches onto a flat gray boulder, quietly positioning his lance over the pool. Careful. The moon must not cast a shadow.
In his other hand he holds a locust. A special treat captured in the grassland and brought here to the forest just for the Large One. The man waits until the wind dies. Silence stills the earth. The only sound is the creek. And a splash. The Large One is feeding. The man drops the locust in the water. Scales shimmer in the moonlight. The man readies the lance and thrusts.
His face is in the water. He see the Large One swim away. The pool overwhelms him, he cannot breath. And then he sees Bokwus coming for his spirit.
No one knows what he does with the spirits of the drowned, but Bokwus desires them more than anything else. He keeps them well hidden.