The Third Bear

by Jeff VanderMeer

  Lucius: If we were real surgeons, we could resurrect someone. With just a little bit of magic. Medical know-how. Magic. Magic fingers.

  Me: And preservations.

  Richard (another of Lucius' friends): Preservations?

  Lucius: He comes from a little cottage on the -

  Me: Its nothing. A joke. A thing to keep fetuses from spoiling until we've had a look at them.

  Peter: What would we do with a resurrected person?

  Lucius: Why, we'd put him up for the city council. A dead person ought to have more wisdom than a living one.

  Me. We could maybe skip a year or two of school if we brought a dead person back.

  Richard.- Do you think they'd like it? Being alive again?

  Lucius: They wouldn't really have a choice, would they?

  Do you know what arrogance is? Arrogance is thinking you can improve on a thousand years of history. Arrogance is trying to do it to get the best of the parents who always loved you.

  Me: There're books in the library, you know.

  Lucius: Quick! Give the man another drink. He's fading. Books in a library. Never heard ofsuch a thing.

  Me: No, I mean -

  Lucius: Next you'll be telling us there are corpses in the cadaver room and -

  Richard: Let him speak, Lucius. He looks serious.

  Me: I mean books on resurrection.

  Lucius: Do tell...

  For a project on prolonged exposure to quicksilver and aether, I had been allowed access to the oldest parts of the library - places where you did not know whether the footprints in the dust revealed by the light of your shaking lantern were a year or five hundred years old. Here, knowledge hid in the dark, and you were lucky to find a little bit of it. I was breathing air breathed hundreds, possibly thousands, of years before by people much wiser than me.

  In a grimy alcove half-choked with old spider webs, I found books on the ultimate in preservation: reanimation of dead matter. Arcane signs and symbols, hastily written down in my notebook.

  No one had been to this alcove for centuries, but they had been there. As I found my halting way out, I noticed the faint outline of boot prints beneath the dust layers. Someone had paced before that shelf, deliberating, and I would never know their name or what they were doing there, or why they stayed so long.

  Lucius: You don't have the balls.

  Me: The balls? I can steal the balls from the cadaver room.

  Richard: He can have as many balls as he wants!

  Peter: We all can!

  Lucius: Quietly, quietly, gents. This is serious business. We're planning on a grandiose level. We're asking to be placed on the pedestal with the greats.

  Me: It's not that glorious. It's been done before, according to the book.

  Lucius: Yes, but not for hundreds of years.

  Peter: Seriously, you wonder why not.

  Richard: I wonder why my beer mug's empty.

  Peter: Barbarian.

  Richard.- Cretin.

  Me: It seems easy enough. It seems as if it is possible.

  One night, Lucius and I so very very drunk, trying too hard to impress, I boasted that with my secret knowledge of reanimation, my Preservationist background, and my two years of medical school, I could resurrect the dead, create a golem from flesh and blood. Human, with a human being's natural life span.

  "And I will assist him," Lucius announced, finger pointed at the ceiling. "Onward!"

  We stumbled out of the tavern's soft light, accompanied by the applause of friends who no doubt thought I was taking a piss - into the darkness of the street, and carried by drunkenness and the animating spirit of our youth, stopping only to vomit into the gutter once or maybe twice, we lurched our debauched way up the hill to the medical school, and in the shadows stole past the snoring old guard, into the cadaver room.

  I remember the spark to the night, cold as it was. I remember the extravagant stars strewn across the sky. I remember the euphoria, being not just on a quest, but on a drunken quest, and together, best of friends in that moment.

  If only we had stayed in that moment.

  "Preservation is a neutral thing," my mother told me once. "It prolongs a state that already exists. It honors the essence of something."

  She stood in the back room surrounded by buckets of pungent water when she said this to me. I think I was twelve or thirteen. She had a ladle and was stirring some buckets, sipping from others. Glints and sparkles came from one. Others were dark and heavy and dull. The floor, once white tile, had become discolored from decades of water storage. The bloody rust circles of the buckets. The hemorrhaging green-blue stains.

  "But the essence of preservation," my mother said, "is that it doesn't last. You can only preserve something for so long, and then it is gone. And that's all right."

  My father had entered the room just before she said this. The look of love and sadness she gave the two of us, me sitting, my father standing behind me, was so stark, so revelatory, that I could not meet her gaze.

  Looking back at that moment, I've often wondered if she already knew our futures.

  In the cadaver room, we picked a newly dead woman who had drowned in the sea. Probably the daughter of a fisherman. She lay exposed on the slab, all strong shoulders and solid breasts and sturdy thighs. Her ankles were delicate, though, as were the features of her face. She had frozen blue eyes and pale skin and an odd smile that made me frown and hesitate for a moment.

  It will come as no surprise we chose her in part because her body excited me. Although Lucius' presence had helped me in this regard, women, for all our boasting, are not drawn to impoverished medical students. Even on those rare occasions, it had been in the dark and I had only had glimpses of a woman's naked form. The dissections of the classroom did not count; they would drive most men to celibacy if not for the resilience of the human mind.

  "This one?" Lucius asked.

  I don't know if he still thought this was a lark, or if he knew how serious I was.

  "I think so," I said. "I think this is the one."

  And, although I didn't know it, I did mean the words.

  We stood there and stared at her. The woman reminded me of someone the more I stared. It was uncanny, and yet I could not think of who she looked like. So taken was I by her that I pushed her hair from her face.

  Lucius nudged my shoulder, whispered, "Stop gawking. That guard might wake up or his replacement come by at any minute."

  Together, we bundled her in canvas like a rug, stole past the guard, and, by means of a wagon Lucius had arranged - from a friend used to Lucius' pranks - we took her, after a brief stop at my apartment to pick up some supplies, to a secluded cove well away from the city. I meant to preserve her tethered in the water, in the sargassum near the rockline. It was a variation on an old preservation trick my mother had once shown a client.

  The physical exertion was intense. I remember being exhausted by the time we hauled her out of the cart. Her body would not cooperate; there was no way for her not to flop and become unwound from the canvas at times. It added to the unreality of it all, and several times we collapsed into giggles. Perhaps we would have sobered up sooner if not for that.

  Luckily the moon was out and Lucius had brought a lantern. By then, my disorganized thoughts had settled, and although I was still drunk I had begun to have doubts. But this is the problem with having an accomplice. If Lucius hadn't been there, I would like to think I'd have put a stop to it all. But I couldn't, not with Lucius there, not with the bond between us now. As for what kept Lucius beside me, I believe he would have abandoned me long before if not for a kind of jaded hedonism - the curiosity of the perpetually bored.

  It was hard. I had to think of the woman as a receptacle, a vehicle, for resurrection, not the end result. We laid her out atop the canvas and I drew symbols on her skin with ink I'd daubed onto my fingers. Holding her right hand, I said the words I had found in the books, knowing neither their meaning nor their correct pronunciation. I
rubbed preservatives into her skin that would not just protect her flesh while she lay amongst the sargassum but actually bring it back to health. I had to do some cutting, some surgery, near the end. An odd autopsy, looking for signs of the "mechanical defect" as one of my instructors used to say, that would preclude her reanimation. I cleared the last fluid from her lungs with a syringe.

  By this time I could not tell you exactly what I was doing. I felt imbued with preternatural, instinctual knowledge and power, although I had neither. What I had were delusions of grandeur spurred on by alcohol and the words of my friends, tempered perhaps by memories of my parents' art.

  Lucius held the lantern and kept muttering, "Oh my God" under his breath. But his tone was not so much one of horror as, again, morbid fascination. I have seen the phenomenon since. It is as if a mental list is being checked off on a list of unique experiences.

  By the time I had finished, I knew the dead woman as intimately as any lover. We took her down to the sargassum bed and we laid her there, floating, tethered by one foot using some rope. I knew that cove. I'd swum in it since I was a child. People hardly ever came there. The sargassum was trapped; the tide only went out in the spring, when the path of the currents changed. The combination of the salt water, the preservatives I'd applied to her, and the natural properties of the sargassum would sustain her as she made her slow way back to life.

  Except for the sutures, she looked as if she were asleep, still with that slight smile, floating on the thick sargassum, glowing from the emerald tincture that would keep the small crabs and other scavengers from her. She looked otherworldly and beautiful.

  Lucius gave a nervous laugh. He had begun to sober up.

  "Any suggestions on what we do next?" he said, disbelief in his voice.

  "We wait."

  "Wait? For how long? We've got classes in the morning. I mean, it's already morning."

  "We wait for a day."

  "Here? For a whole day?"

  "We come back. At night. She'll still be here."

  There's nothing in the nature of a confession that makes it any more or less believable. I know this, and my shadow on the beach knows it, or he would have talked to me by now. Or I would have talked to him, despite my misgivings.

  I haven't seen Lucius in forty years. My shadow could be Lucius. It could be, but I doubt it.

  ii.

  In the morning, for a time, neither Lucius nor I knew whether the night's events had been real or a dream. But the cart outside of our rooms, the deep fatigue in our muscles, and the blood and skin under our fingernails - this evidence convinced us. We looked at each other as if engaged in some uneasy truce, unwilling to speak of it, still thinking, I believe, that it would turn out to have been a hallucination.

  We went to classes like normal. Our friends teased us about the bet, and I shrugged, gave a sheepish grin while Lucius immediately talked about something else. The world seemed to have changed not at all because of our actions and yet I felt completely different. I kept seeing the woman's face. I kept thinking about her eyes

  Did the medical school miss the corpse? If so, they ignored it for fear of scandal. How many times a year did it happen, I've always wondered, and for what variety of reasons?

  That night we returned to the cove, and for three nights more. She remained preserved but she was still dead. Nothing had happened. It appeared I could not bring her back to life, not even for a moment. The softly hushing water that rocked her sargassum bed had more life to it than she. Each time I entered a more depressed and numbed state.

  "What's her name, do you think?" Lucius asked me on the third night.

  He was sitting on the rocks, staring at her. The moonlight made her pale skin luminous against the dark green.

  "She's dead," I said. "She doesn't have a name."

  "But she had a name. And parents. And maybe a husband. And now she's here. Floating."

  He laughed. It was a raw laugh. I didn't like what it contained.

  On the afternoon of the first day, Lucius had been good-natured and joking. By the second, he had become silent. Now he seemed to have lost something vital, some sense of perspective. He sat on the rocks drawn in on himself, huddled for warmth. I hated his questions. I hated his attitude.

  Even though it was I who pined for the woman, who so desperately wanted her to come to gasping life, to rise from the sargassum, reborn.

  Everywhere I went, I saw those frozen blue eyes.

  Once, before I left home, in that time when I was arguing with my parents almost every day, restless with their world and my place in it, there was a pause because each of us regretted something we had said.

  Into this silence, my mother said, "You've got to know who you are, and even when you think you've been treated unfairly still be that person."

  I said something sarcastic and stormed out of the cottage - to feel the salt air on my face, to look across the water toward distant, unseen shores.

  I didn't know that I would one day find so much more so close to home.

  The fourth night Lucius refused to go with me.

  "It's pointless," he said. "Not only that, it's dangerous. We shouldn't have done it in the first place. It's still a crime, to steal a body. Let it go. She'll be taken out to sea or rotting soon enough. Or put her out to sea yourself. Just don't mention it to me again."

  In his face I saw fear, yes, but mostly awareness of a need for selfpreservation. This scared me. The dead woman might have enthralled me, but Lucius had become my anchor at medical school.

  "You're right," 1 told him. "I'll go one last time and put her out to sea."

  Lucius smiled, but there was something wrong. I could feel it.

  "We'll chalk it up to youthful foolishness," he said, putting his arm over

  my shoulders. "A tale to tell the grandchildren in thirty years."

  She was still there, perfectly preserved, on that fourth night. But this time, rising from the sargassum, I saw what I thought was a pale serpent, swaying. In the next second, breath frozen in my throat, I realized I was staring at her right arm - and that it was moving.

  I dashed into the water and to her side, hoping for what? I still don't know. Those frozen blue eyes. That skin, imperfect yet perfect. Her smile.

  She wasn't moving. Her body still had the staunch solidity, the draining heaviness, of the dead. What I had taken to be a general awakening was just the water's gentle motion. Only the arm moved with any purpose - and it moved toward me. It sought me out, reaching. It touched my cheek as I stood in the water there beside her, and I felt that touch everywhere.

  I spent almost an hour trying to wake her. I thought that perhaps she was close to full recovery, that I just needed to push things a little bit. But nothing worked. There was just the twining arm, the hand against my cheek, my shoulder, seeking out my own hand as if wanting comfort.

  Finally, exhausted, breathing heavily, I gave up. I refreshed the preservation powders, made sure she was in no danger of sinking, and left her there, the arm still twisting and searching and alive.

  I was crying as I walked away. I had been working so hard that it wasn't until that moment that I realized what had happened.

  I had begun to bring her back to life.

  Now if only I could bring her the rest of the way.

  As I walked back up into the city, into the noise and color and sounds of people talking - back into my existence before her - I was already daydreaming about our life together.

  The quality of the silence here can be extraordinary. It's the wind that does it. The wind hisses its way through the bungalow's timbers and blocks out any other sound.

  The beach could be, as it sometimes is, crowded with day visitors and yet from my window it forms a silent tableau. I can watch mothers with their children, building sandcastles, or beachcombers, or young couples, and I can create the dialogue for their lives. How many of them will make decisions that become the Decision? Who really recognizes when they've tipped the balance, when
they've entered into a place from which there is no escape?

  The old man knows, I'm sure. He has perspective. But the rest of them, they have no idea what awaits them.

  For another week I went to her nightly, and each time the hand reached toward me like some luminous, five-petaled flower, grasping toward the moon. There was no other progress. Slowly, my hopes and daydreams turned to sleeplessness and despair. My studies suffered and I stammered upon questioning like a first-year who couldn't remember the difference between a ligament and a radial artery. My friends stared at me and muttered that I worked too hard, that my brain had gone soft from overstudy. But I saw nothing but the woman's eyes, even when Lucius, without warning, while I was visiting her, moved out of our quarters. Leaving me alone.

  I understood this, to some extent. I had become a bad roommate and, worse, a liability. But when Lucius began avoiding me in the halls, then I knew he had intuited I had gone farther, gone against his advice.

  Finally, at the end of an anatomy class, I cornered him. He looked at me as if I were a stranger.

  "I need you to come down to the water with me," I said.

  "Why?" he said. "What's the point?"

  "You need to see."

  "What have you done?"

  From Lucius' tone you would have thought I'd murdered someone.