Camera tricks, Coffee and Merlot

this is a dual entry, for i'm running out of time,
for Theme Thursday,
and Tenth Daughter of Memory...
hope it's not too long!

Jerome the wild kneed photog, naturalist in disguise,
stowed a bag of crackers and taco chips into his back pack,
along with the bare camp essentials and a can of coffee.
He disappeared into the woods just outside his cabin door.
The path was clear and free of stone or root for at least the first mile,
and indeed it was a pretty easy hike from his door step to the closest town,
some five miles distant. But at the ancient three-trunk maple he veered
into the trees; there was no discernible path.
Jerome scrambled through the heavy branches and brush
for some time, until he stumbled onto a sparse game trail,
and once there he pulled a freshly sharpened machete from
the sheath at his waist and began hacking at the growth.
He had been working on this trail for several months,
and it led to a secret place, a place of wonder and mystery.
Jerome had very little in the way of supplies, partly because
he liked to travel light, and partly because he had stowed some
supplies at his camp sight during the last visit. But mostly because
his secret place was a paradise, and everything he really needed
to live was already there. Water, food, and shelter.
The company wasn't all that shabby, either.
After a good stretch of the legs, Jerome stopped
straightened his back, reaching his lanky arms into the air.
His fingertips grazed a gnarly locust tree and caught a thorn.
He winced, but any walk into the woods entailed hives,
bug bites and scratches. He unslung the canteen and took a swig,
wiped his mouth dry.
From here on to the little pond where he would stop to camp
the path was wider and more traveled, so he sheathed
the machete. Looking down he saw a fresh sets of foot prints.
They were wider than his boot print, and longer.
They were the bare foot prints of a primate walking upright
and sunk deep into the dirt path—most likely
made when the ground was muddy. It was bone dry now, and the air
of the woods felt light and pleasant as it moved around in the leaves and
down to his body. Despite the large prints, he was lighthearted and whistled.
Finally Jerome broke into a clearing. The first time he stumbled
into this opening he shouted out in surprise, the sight was that unexpected.
Now he stood at the entrance with hands on hips and leaned back
to take in the glory of the little wooded oasis.
The whole of it may have been a half acre. A little thatched cabin
would have fit perfectly at one end, with plenty of garden space left over.
Into the clearing ran a perfect bubbling stream, meandering and
chock full of every variety and color of river rock and stone ledges.
The brook emptied into a little pond, bigger than a backyard pool,
but smaller than an Olympic venue. Jerome walked up to pool and
sat at the edge, stripping off his boots and socks, and plunging
his burning feet into the water. 'Ahhhh,' he moaned, and fell to his back.
After the short reprieve, Jerome unencumbered himself of his accoutrements,
taking a digital camera from a pocket of his shorts.
'Who's here today?' he called out, and started snapping pics. He stood
in one place and rotated, catching the clearing from every angle. When he
came back around to the start, Jerome lowered the camera and checked his
photos. Immediately he got an answer. Standing at the opposite end of the
clearing by a jack pine was a prehistoric sloth and his son...they were
munching on berry laden branches and eying him. On a stump to his right sat a hairy
biped smoking a pipe and twiddling its dirty toes. “Hiya, J” he seemed to
mouth from the corner of his whiskered lips. Jerome knew this big fella
as Sam, and was unafraid.
The pictures of the pond were of the most interest to Jerome,
and he scanned them twice over, then retook them. No sign of life there.
The last time Jerome came to the clearing he only caught a glimmer
of the pond's resident, no more. But that slight glimpse was enough to captivate him.
He would come back every weekend for the rest of his life to see more;
it couldn't be helped. Every spare moment away he only had room
in his head for thoughts of this Eden and the heavenly soul that
lived in its pond. He sat again and dangled his toes in the cool water.
Later that afternoon Jerome pulled a bottle of wine from the pond.
He had a rope tied around the neck, and the wine was sunk deep enough to
keep it perfectly chilled. With his pocket knife his pried loose the
cork and took a sip, then a longer draught. Jerome stood and
wandered over to the tree stump, where he sat the bottle down
on a flat stone and backed away. The bottle of Merlot rose into the
air and tipped; half the contents drained away, and the bottle hovered
to Jerome's hand. He wiped the lip on his sleeve and took another sip.
He raised the bottle to the forest edge and waggled it, but the answer
from the sloth was a garbled, 'na thanks' and Jerome handed it back
toward the tree stump.
Nothing. Interesting, the wine was never refused before.
Jerome took a quick picture of the stump and checked the file.
A perfect picture of a Sasquatch was shaking his head 'no' and pointing
to the pond. Jerome whirled.
Peeking from the stoic fluids was a blond goddess, she rose
and hovered at the surface, balancing on the crest of a wave, a beautiful
princess mermaid, all woman above and glimmering fish below.
She beckoned to Jerome, and he waded into the pond, holding
the bottle above the choppy waves.
Somehow he didn't sink to the bottom, but went to her, seeing her without
aid from the camera, while the last rays of the sun caught the tree tops
and began to flicker as they caught in the branches and leaves.
'Give me a drink, Jerome,' she said, and she sipped a little of the Merlot.
'I saw you; I came back,' he said and she smiled.
'I will always be here at the clearing's sunset, for a few minutes; is that
enough for you?'
Of course, thought Jerome, and the mermaid faded into the dusk. He still felt
her though, as her soft fingers trailed down his waist and his leg down to his foot.
Then she was gone. Along with the bottle of wine.
Jerome floundered out of the pond, dripping to the bank.
He unloaded some camp gear, including a sleeping bag and some campfire
pots and pans, and the can of coffee. Tonight he'd have crackers and
water, but tomorrow Jerome would up early, with the raucous birds.
He'd brew a strong pot of coffee and be off, back to his cabin
for another bottle of red Merlot; after all, the weekend was just half over,
and another sundown was to be had.
Jerome took a picture of the night, and said goodnight to his friends,
leaving the crackers out for whoever wanted them.
Tomorrow night he would return, and hopefully he would share
his wine, and have a sweet sunset kiss.