In no way did it resemble the thick richness of a spring or summer forest, yet you could see a patch of green here and there being coaxed out by the unseasonable warmth of the last few days. Many of the trees in Burchill's forest were evergreen. Tall firs and pines still blocked out much of the sun, so that long fingers of light pointed to the ground in the front of us. Branches and vines brushed our faces. Overhead, winter birds screamed their dismay.
Langford and I stayed very close, relative strangers to the country, out of place in this wilderness. Our little dog loyally snuffled slightly ahead of her amateur masters. The others talked, sometimes seeming to speak in a language we couldn't understand. Especially May, who led the group as though we were on a naturalist expedition, instead of a hunt for missing bodies. She pointed out tree types, bushes, leftover leaves, the Latin names for the vegetation. We all knew she had to keep talking to block out the sound of her thoughts, so we listened politely and even asked questions to bolster her speeches.
When she grew tired, Peter Smallwood took over, telling his hilarious stories just as he had done at the Reneaux household on the first night of the search. Our laughter echoed through the quiet trees, enough to dispel any thoughts Walking Bear may have had about attacking us. The distraction also served to pass the time. I was somewhat surprised that Basil was so quiet. He seemed to be fully absorbed in the search and disconnected from the rest of us.
Despite turning our heads every which way—down, around, shuffling, observing, examining, searching—time did not move quickly. We trudged, halted, and waited, while Alain or Peter hacked at some vines or roots and traipsed along again, stopping each time we thought we saw something significant.
I guess it was inevitable that it was May who found the first real clue. We had been walking and trudging for about ninety minutes when May bent down swiftly, her hand disappearing into the tangled branches of a bush. Straightening up, she gave a small cry, and we all gathered around to look. In her hand, May held a chunk of stiff brown fur.
"Bear," she whispered, looking around at all of us, alarm making her eyes look huge.
The group was deadly silent, even Angel. The dog darted from one to the other, sniffing, seeking clues about the waves of fear that had suddenly radiated from all six of us. May twisted the stiff, brown hair in her hands, studying it carefully, sniffing at it as if she were a fellow bear.
"It's covered in old blood," she said, in a voice barely audible to the whole group.
Peter stepped over and took it from her, studying it as carefully as she had done. "And it was stuck under here?" He bent to examine the bush. "It looks as if it were tossed there. It doesn't seem to be a natural place for a bear to catch itself on." He stayed on his haunches and looked up at the group. "I think we should send out a flare. What do you guys think?"
Langford spoke up. "I agree. Edgar did ask us to look for any signs of bear and this is certainly an unusual one. Maybe the rest of the gang should join us and concentrate on this sector."
The rest of the group assented, unconsciously huddled together near the bush where the find had appeared, while Alain set the flare soaring and hissing into the sky. We stood close together in a patch of sunlight, eyes peering through clumps of evergreen branches or spindles of deadened maple limbs, stamping our feet on broken bits of bark and bush and moss. We listened to the breeze soughing through the forest, to the occasional complaint of an animal disturbed, to the chirp of a squirrel high above us. At that moment, it seemed to me, this was a silent, secretive wood, a place where Bear walked upright and spoke, a yawning chasm that had swallowed up two women.
In sleep we are given wings.
The colours of the night are fixed in my mind, offering sublime
peace
Chapter 14
She had no idea how long she had been there, swimming in and out of consciousness. Sometimes when she was awake, she was unsure of whether or not she was in her own body, or whether she had entered another dimension. As the hours wore on, she became convinced that she could not withstand the pain any longer. Instead of improving, she felt as though her body were collapsing into itself, unable to sustain the repercussions of her injury. Her eyes continued to be blinded, filmy with infection. She surmised that some hideous contamination had passed from the bear trap into her blood stream.
She began to hum to herself, a constant moan, a redirection of her concentration away from the source of her pain. Whenever Walking Bear or the Other chanted, she chanted too, as loudly and as pitifully as she could manage, no longer seeking empathy and help, simply as a way of diverting the throb of agony.
The Other had not returned for a very long period of time. Walking Bear had seemed distant, coming to her only with food. Each time she was left alone, she found herself aching for the touch, the faint reassuring growls and the sustaining water that Walking Bear brought to her. She wanted to be held, rocked, and nourished.
She had drifted into another dream. She was not sure that the shift in the air, the scent and the movement were real, until she forced her body to jerk by leaning into the pain, pressuring her injury until it created a twinge that catapulted the rest of her into consciousness.
Now she was certain that Walking Bear was close to her again. She could smell dampness and hear hoarse breathing. She lifted her shaking hand to take the wiry stiffness of fur surrounded by the soft padding of skin on a paw. It felt strange yet comforting. "You will be healed now," came the whisper. "You are ready."
She was aware then, that the Other had entered her space for the first time. She could smell a human body, unwashed, sweaty. Yet an underlying sweetness permeated the air. It was a familiar scent. She realized that this was a person with whom she'd had close contact in the past, but her mind would not allow her to choose a face or a name. Licking her parched lips, she tried to ask Walking Bear who this was, but just then the figure leaned toward her again, and the cool water began to trickle down her throat and chin.
Walking Bear fed her as before, cradling her head, slowly coaxing water and food into her starving body. When her body was released, gently eased into the prone position again, the voice said, "You will not speak" and she was willing to do whatever she was asked.
The first touch was like an electric shock. Heat that came in waves shot up her foot and leg. She was aware of a pressure, light and feathery, as though fingers were trailing over the hairs of her limb. Shivers of warmth radiated from it, flooding her broken bones with a pulsing energy. The vibrations ebbed and flowed all along her body. She could feel her face begin to flush, her fingers tingle, her stomach flip. The hands kept moving back and forth, all around, not quite touching and yet connecting, all the same. Her body responded like a cat's to the gentle stroking of a loving owner, stretching and purring. Restorative, cleansing, alive once more.
When the chanting began again, it was low and soothing, humming along with the waves that buzzed through her system like a plug in a light socket. The words came from some primal, womb-recorded section of her brain, from the roots of her native ancestry. The tears flowed freely through the crevices and rivulets of her time worn face. She began to feel the gooey infection loosen and seep away.
Walking Bear moved even closer to her, flesh and fur brushing her body, and gently wiped her eyelids and cheeks. She blinked, eyes sore and tear-filled, as the dim but piercing light filtered in and seared her brain. It took patience and time, opening and closing her lids, before she could keep them open on her own. At the same time, she felt Walking Bear's movement, as something shifted in the semi-darkness. As Frieda was given back her sight—as she realized that she could truly see—Walking Bear showed to her, a human face.
Chapter 15
"I'm glad you sent the flare," Edgar reassured us. "This has to be the right sector, the one Walking Bear is to be found in, at least." He gave an embarrassed chuckle and then stared off into the distance, as though trying to see beyond the trees into the future. "Where does the forest end here? I know
where we were heading goes straight into Sahsejewon, and the centre one begins like an inverted triangle and ends at the Provincial Park. But this one...I've never actually been through it, even as a kid."
"Me either," Peter said. "I think it was out of bounds for us as kids. Isn't there some kind of ravine a few miles up that's pretty steep and dangerous? Appears out of nowhere? I think some people were badly injured traipsing through there and thus it became forbidden to Burchill kids...and adults, obviously."
"You are right, Peter," Alain added. "My Dad warned us never to go too far and we did not, even as rebellious teenagers. I think it was really impressed upon us how dangerous it is. Did Oona ever take you in here, May?"
May nodded, still looking contemplative. "She did take me through this sector." She pointed back in the direction of Oona's cottage. "Her place is on the edge of Sahsejewon not too far from here. She used it a lot for trapping, probably because not many people came through. She once showed me the ravine edge. It would be several hours' walk from here. There are caves on the other side of the ravine that were said to be sacred burial grounds. I think that was part of the reason kids were discouraged from exploring that far."
I wondered if the same thoughts were running through May's mind—bear fur, the legend come alive, Oona's and Frieda's disappearance, Agnes's vision quest, all occurring at the same time. Did it have something to do with this sector, where few people roamed? Would we discover the three native women bringing the moral tale to life, and if so why?
I reflected back to May's observations of her aunt in the last few months, how she'd begun to drink again, the way she'd spoken of being poor while others had benefited from their spoils. How was her behaviour connected to her disappearance or to Frieda's? Was the purchase of an expensive home by Frieda somehow linked? Was Agnes Lake with them, or was her quest completely separate? Perhaps we'd find their bodies at the bottom of Bahswaway after all. I couldn't make sense of any of it and from the look in May's eyes, she couldn't either.
"What do we do now, Edgar?" I asked, leaning down to absently stroke Angel's silky neck.
Before he could answer, there were several shouts and the rest of the search parties joined us. Discussion, explanation, and theories went around for a while after that. Finally, Edgar answered my question.
"Let's continue on for a short while in this sector only," Edgar said. "Most of you can go home. Let's keep about twelve." He smiled and said, "Twelve apostles to keep going, okay? May and Alain, I'd like you to stay on if you can. I don't think there's any danger with all of us together, and I'm damn curious about what is going on. Please, don't anyone stay who is unsure about this, or nervous, or whatever."
In the end, May, Alain, Langford and I, the Smallwoods, the McEntyers, Basil and Aileen Fisher, and Edgar and Frances, made up the twelve apostles who elected to keep going. By this time the sun had risen nearly to the treetops, so the ground became softer and quite muddy in spots. Not to mention the fact that we were now shedding some of our layers. We were even bulkier with sweaters and jackets tied around our hips. The forest was filled with the sounds of our swishing and snapping through the brittle branches and resistant bushes, our feet thudding and slipping on fallen twigs and decomposed leaves. Angel stayed very close, her nose twitching with the various odours that wafted toward us on the wind. It was a slow, tedious process.
At first we were very quiet, until Frances began asking questions about Burchill, native traditions, and the history of the canal. Frances was raised in Toronto, and although she'd been around Ottawa for the last five years, including her stint here in Burchill, she was like me, enjoying the small town life, but not too well informed about its foundations. Her questions began a whole avalanche of answers, stories, legend and fact, that kept us fascinated and alert while we walked.
It wasn't long before we found another sign of the bear. A huge print preserved in the muddy, icy ground inside a small clearing that was free of vegetation. Incongruently big and grotesque in that space, it looked like a clay model, something deliberately designed to be frightening. Whoever—whatever—had planted it certainly had done the job well.
I had a difficult time holding Angel back from traipsing all over the print. She strained and whined until Langford picked her up in his arms from where she stared and panted, but did not resist. May, Edgar and Frances squatted and bent their heads over the print, talking in low tones, their voices expressing wonder and bewilderment.
Finally May straightened up. "This isn't an animal's print," she pronounced to no one in particular. "It's not embedded enough. An animal that would make a print of this size," she pointed to the muddy area still crowded by Edgar and Frances, "would weigh a ton. The print would be a lot lower in the mud. Not only that, there is no heel mark, as if the bear were walking on his toes."
"And bears walk flat-footed, especially if they happen to be standing upright at the time," Edgar added.
"Which they rarely do," chimed in Peter Smallwood.
"There is only one print, too," Frances said, "even though the whole area of this clearing is muddy, not just one little spot. It's not likely that one paw could have landed in the clearing and the other in the grass."
"This was planted here," May asserted. "I think Walking Bear is far more human than it is any other animal." She stretched her back, searching through the trees. I could imagine that she searched for the answers beyond the quiet evergreen branches. "Someone was meant to find this and become frightened." Later, she would tell me that she felt like hollering out for her Aunt Oona, demanding to know where she was and why she was doing this.
Edgar stood up beside May and agreed with her. "I think we'd better get out of here. I'm going to get a picture of this, then we'll mark our way out, so we can easily get back in. Somebody is playing a hell of a bad joke. We need more law enforcement so we can find out who it is."
He withdrew his small digital camera from his jacket pocket and began to snap pictures all around the print. It was while our attention was drawn to this process that it happened.
Far ahead of us, filtered through sunlight and the skeletons of winter trees, an apparition appeared. The head of the bear reflected shades of light and dark brown, with tinges of yellow from the sunlight fingering down upon it. Shoulders of fur and feather poked through the evergreen tree around which the animal peered. Yet it was clear that this was not quite purely bear, for in addition to the steely stare of the bear's eyes, a human visage, cloaked in animal hair, mostly covered by white and black feathers, glared straight at us.
It was as though bear and human had become one, an angry mixture of instinct, hatred borne of experience and deep disappointment. The feeling that we were interlopers, invaders, enemies, cut through the distance and held us all very still in its spell.
Before any of us could react, Walking Bear turned and disappeared.
Chapter 16
If the Burchill villagers and reserve dwellers had not experienced the horrors of the Bridgeman incident two years ago, the stories that swelled over the homes and businesses might well have caused panic that weekend. As it was, there were very few, if any, tourists around at this time of year, and because the subdivisions were not finished, only a handful of newcomers. This occurrence was nothing compared to the Bridgeman incident. So everyone, though they talked and talked about Walking Bear, went about their daily activities as usual. It was Spring Break though, which meant more children on the loose, and there were some in the village who suspected teenagers to be at the root of it all. As well, many villagers appeared to be amused by the entire incident, while others were charmed and fascinated by the legend-come-true.
Edgar and Frances were kept busy the rest of that weekend, chasing other sightings. The volunteer police officers, such as Barry Mills and Michael Lewis, were recruited to follow up on many of the complaints. There were reports of Walking Bear appearing near the woods, around Oona Nabigon's house, on the shores of Ogeechee Lake and on the edge of Sahsejewon. In
some cases, the police did find evidence of bear fur and prints. Mostly though the sightings turned out to be imagination. A fallen tree twisted into a bear leaning menacingly over the pathway, or a dog print morphed into a bear claw.
Edgar felt as though he hadn't had a moment alone with Frances since this whole incident began. As for Frances, she appeared, to Edgar at least, to be finding more excuses to be apart. It seemed to him that his recent proposal of marriage had chased her out of his arms and his bed into her patrol car and her job. On one level, he knew he was being irrational. Normally he strived so carefully to use intellect rather than emotion. After all, their jobs had become much busier and more stressful over the last few weeks. However, he couldn't shake the notion that the fact that this stress was driving them apart rather than pulling them together and was a bad sign. Thus it was that on Sunday evening Frances was patrolling the highway, while Edgar was meeting with Chief Dan and some of his Council on the reserve.
Edgar had long ago heard the legend of Walking Bear, but he enjoyed hearing it again as he sat around the council table, his notebook spread before him, a ritual whiskey in his hand.
Basil Fisher was especially loquacious today, having had more than one ritual whiskey it appeared, and being especially thrilled with his confrontation with the legend. His little round face was alight with possibilities. His lively black eyes danced and it seemed that his short-cropped grey hair stood up even straighter on his head.
"We all stood there in shock while he got away from us," he chuckled, and Edgar had to agree. "We just stood there for the longest time after the apparition disappeared, saying absolutely nothing. Not even Edgar moved."
The Emily Taylor Mystery Bundle Page 24