Yara-Ma-Yha-Who

By Bethany Kohler

There’s nothing like finding yourself in the middle of nowhere, in a strange country, sitting like bait in a trap under a giant fig tree, to make you stop and think about your life choices.

I always considered myself to be a reasonably intelligent, cautious person, but would a reasonably intelligent, cautious person be sitting where I’m sitting? At least I can look back and trace the string of mistakes that got me here.

Mistake number one: being blinded by a set of gorgeous abs and swiping right on a blue-eyed Aussie hunk.

Mistake number two: continuing to chat with him for months while convincing myself he was passionate, not crazy. He loved studying Anthropology and Mythology—not such a weird hobby. Except he insisted that every mythical creature was real, just most of them extinct. At first, I thought he was pulling my leg. He told me about the Hawkesbury River Monster and his theory that it shared ancestry with the Loch Ness Monster. He told me about the Blue Mountains Panther and the Drop Bear. And more terrifying than those, the Bunyip and the Yara-Ma-Yha-Who.

Which brings us to mistakes number three and four: actually flying out to Sydney to meet him in person, and agreeing to go monster hunting with him. Yes, monster hunting. But when I looked at his dazzling blue eyes and his smile that could melt frozen butter—and I was already room-temperature—I told myself he couldn’t be serious about all the monster stuff. He was pulling my leg again. Maybe he wanted to go hiking and chose to frame it in colorful language. Maybe we were only going for a picnic. So I laughed it off and went along. Like a flamin’ galah—to use a local term.

I’d climbed into his Jeep, content to gaze at his rugged profile as he explained his plan. The first seed of doubt took hold when he glanced across at me with a charming grin and said quite casually that I would be the bait. I laughed, but with a nervous tremor this time.

He’d hide in relative safety with his camera, and I’d sit out in the open, a tasty morsel for the blood-sucking Yara-Ma-Yha-Who. That was his plan. I didn’t like it, but told myself it was safe enough, because monsters didn’t exist. Not the mythical ones, anyway. There was no Yara-Ma-Yha-Who. There was no real danger.

And now I’m here, sitting under this stupid fig tree, sweating—literally and figuratively. It’s been two hours and my confidence in my own safety is dwindling. The crazy—but oh-so-gorgeous—Aussie is out of sight. All I see is dense brush growth and strange trees. No sign of monsters. But this is Australia, the country where you don’t need mythical monsters, because the bugs and plants are enough to kill a person. I can feel my blood pressure rising. Just how long am I supposed to wait?

Of course, now I think of all sorts of arguments I wish I’d made. Why do I have to be the bait? You’ve got way more premium grade meat on you. You should be the bait. I’ll wait in hiding with the camera. I’m an excellent photographer. Why would you send a woman to do the dangerous job? Did I give you the impression I was a feminist? As of this moment, I’m a traditionalist. I believe in gender-roles. Life-threatening jobs should always be done by men.

Suddenly, there’s a bizarre whining sound overhead, then a zhwoop, followed by rustling in the bushes where I know the hunky kook hid with his camera.

“Hey!” I whisper fiercely. “What was that?”

No response. I strain my eyes, but can’t see a thing.

Then something much too short to be the hunky kook steps out of the brush. I find myself staring at a bright-red goblin creature. Every muscle in my body goes rigid while my innards turn to mush.

The creature’s head is disproportionately large, and its grotesque mouth stretches from ear to ear, like a snake—or Pac-Man. Its arms are so long, its huge hands almost drag the ground. It hobbles toward me on skinny little bird-legs. I press myself back against the tree. There is no doubt in my mind. This is the Yara-Ma-Yha-Who.

I don’t scream, but the way my heart is beating reminds me of a fish out of water.

“Please don’t eat me,” I breathe.

There’s a sudden beep, and I notice the monster is holding a little box with buttons on it and a blinking light. It holds this up to the side of its head, and the box makes some strange sounds. Then the Yara-Ma-Yha-Who itself makes some strange sounds into the device and holds it out toward me.

A synthesized voice from the box says, “I will not harm you.”

A translator.

I sit up a little. “What’d you do to the hunk?”

Beep. The box makes some weird sounds. The creature makes some weird sounds. The synthesized voice translates. “Your friend? I put him to sleep. No pictures.”

“Sleep? You mean you sucked his blood? Is he dead? And you’re saving my blood for later?”

The Yara-Ma-Yha-Who listens to the translation of this and makes a strange whirring sound. It might be a laugh. “No, I don’t suck blood,” the translator says a moment later. “I’m here for the figs. They are a rare commodity on my planet.”

I stare dumbfounded. An alien? Here for the figs?

The next half-hour is the most bizarre half-hour of my life. I chat with a creepy red alien through a translator while helping him pick figs. He tells me strange things about his civilization, and his planet.

Then I watch him—and all the figs we collected—disappear with that same zhwoop sound.

Now the only thing left to do is wake up the chiseled numbskull and tell him, “You may be gorgeous, but I’ve met aliens with more interesting conversational skills.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Bethany Kohler is a writer and poet with a penchant for witty banter, a weakness for verbose descriptions of scenery, and a passion for weaving truth into fiction. She carries a deep regard for nineteenth-century literature, and counts many dead authors among her mentors. When she is not reading or writing, Bethany might be found baking delectable pastries, sewing historically inspired dresses, or singing anything from folk songs to Broadway tunes.

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