by Gene Wolfe
“This here is ‘Sweet Sue,’” Mr. Banks informed me, drawing another hound from the truck. “Sweet Sue” was diminutive in size, possessed of a melting glance, and indubitably female and the recent mother of puppies. The three male dogs seemed at least mildly intrigued at her appearance, despite the hours of her company in the back of the truck. Sandy didn’t bother to tie up “Sweet Sue,” and she frisked around his feet as he extracted the last dog, a white bull terrier with a torn ear, from its confines. “My catch dog,” he explained. “‘Lance’ ’ll tree anything that won’t tree for the hounds or fight it ’til I come.” The bull terrier grinned in that peculiarly unprincipled way bull terriers have. His teeth would have done credit to a small shark.
“You see,” Commissioner Cowly said, “as I told you, each of these animals is a specialist. Fascinating, isn’t it?”
On the way back to the pits, which he wished to examine (Commissioner Cowly having decided that although Mr. Banks had not been instructed to appear until the day following he should, since he was not available for duty here, remain to “mark the bear”) I asked “Sandy” what part Sweet Sue would be expected to play in the hunt.
“Sweet Sue is just a general all around good hound dog,” Sandy said. “But I mostly bring her to encourage the others and make them braver; of course when she’s in heat I got to keep her locked up. Now, like you see, she’s just whelped—I drowned them—and that’s because a while ago I let her go too long. It was a fruit case, just like this here one, except that it was a possum doin’ it. I put the dogs after him and waited for them to yell ‘treed,’ which they never did, and along about sunup I give up myself and went back to the truck figuring they had about run that rascal into the next county. But the joke was on me because that night the possum was back again and took some more, but them dogs didn’t come draggin’ back for a week and when I saw the look that was on their faces I knowed but by then it was too late. Also that ‘Sweet Sue’ is a good dog for rabbits.”
That night after Commissioner Cowly had returned to his office Mr. Banks and I established ourselves in the pits. It was necessary that this be done early, since the bear might well “spy out” the orchard before deserting the safety of the woods, so six o’clock found us in position, our locations artfully concealed beneath screens or “blinds” of leafy branches from the apple trees. A gentle rain was falling.
I had taken the precaution of filling a thermos with hot coffee from the kitchen, but I resolved to limit myself to a single cup an hour. My other equipment consisted of my camera, flashgun, and bulbs; and an extra can of the fluorescent spray paint—this last for emergency use only, since I was not the official marker and there could conceivably be legal difficulties about hunting a bear marked by someone not directly associated with the Bureau of Wildlife Management. “Sandy” Banks (in the other pit, not fifteen feet from where I crouched, but in the rain and the darkness how far it seemed!), I knew, had a paint can like mine (save that his was full), and a Kap-Tscher gun which fired (by means of a powerful latex spring) “hypodermic darts,” each consisting of a four-inch needle about as thick as a knitting needle, a “mainbody” or syringe containing a carefully calculated dose of powerful tranquilizing drug (a tricky business this, since too small a quantity would fail to quiet the bear, while an overdose of even a few milligrams would be fatal), plastic guidance feathers, and a small siren with a blinking light (battery powered) to assist the huntsman in locating the immobilized animal. In addition, although this was somewhat against instructions (Commissioner Cowly wished to donate the animal to a National Park), Banks had, I knew, an old military assault rifle; he had showed me this weapon in strictest confidence after I had assured him repeatedly that I would not mention its existence in this article, since exposure would almost certainly mean the loss of his position.
After the first four or five hours the wait grew monotonous. The rain that had been falling all afternoon turned somewhat heavier, and it occurred to me that our blinds—that is, the mats of apple tree limbs that covered our holes—would have been much more effective in shedding water if they had been made with a pitch in the center, such as is found in the roof of a small house or a tent. It might even be possible (I intend to experiment with this idea at the next opportunity) to actually use a small tent, erecting it over one’s pit and covering the canvas with branches; it would not, of course, be possible then to part the leaves from inside to look out, but this might be taken care of by cutting holes in the walls of the tent as needed. If the wait were to be of long duration I might even have a stove or a little fire.
I had been crouched under the blind about six hours when I discovered that there were apples still clinging to the limbs that made up my shelter. I picked one and, recalling what Mr. Swint had told us about the sprays used on them, washed it with what was left of my coffee, which was cold by this time anyway. Since it was now completely dark this was a tricky operation, but I discovered that each apple had a little recessed area (I call this a “well”) surrounding the stem, and I contrived to fill this with the cold coffee and wash the remainder of the surface by dabbling my fingers in this natural “reservoir.”
I had treated a second apple in this same way and was groping through the leafy “blind” for a third when my fingers stumbled on something which, at first contact, I might almost have taken for a raw oyster. I raised myself to a sort of half crouch (I had been sitting) and thrust aside the leaves to see what it was, and found myself staring at what at first seemed—before I had found my mental focus, so to speak—to be the face of a man suffering from a gross deformity of the nose and jaws, so that the lower part of his face protruded in a way that was grotesque and pathetic in the extreme. An instant later I realized that I was “eyeball to eyeball” with the bear, and with what I still feel to have been considerable presence of mind I yelled to inform “Sandy” Banks of my discovery and threw myself backward (that is, back down into the pit) as forcefully as I could, thus putting an additional eighteen or twenty inches between myself and the animal, should he choose to attack.
The bear, who must have understood that he was to be hunted as soon as he heard me call to Banks, at once displayed the extreme agility which renders all his kind such formidable antagonists. With a peculiar cry I can only describe as approximating the note of a large dog kicked unexpectedly while asleep he flung his head and shoulders in the direction opposite me so vigorously that he was able to continue in a sort of rolling motion until his hind feet were high in the air, and, following through, bring them down behind his head so that he had, in the twinkling of an eye, revolved his entire body, which must have weighed several hundred pounds, through a full three hundred and sixty degrees of arc.
He then showed (all this took place, as you must realize, in less than a few seconds) yet another of the remarkable abilities with which nature has armed his tribe: the ability to “charge” or sprint at an exceedingly high speed from what is called a “standing start”—or even, as in this case, beginning from a movement already in progress with considerable celerity in the opposite direction. Fortunately for me this charge was directed not toward myself but at Sandy Banks’ position. Lying flat, as I was, in my own, I was unable to see just what occurred, but I distinctly heard the crash as Banks’ “blind” gave way beneath the weight of the bear. I ran to get help.
By this time it was pitch dark, and the rain, which was increasing in force, had rendered the footing extremely treacherous, so that the first four or five persons I encountered were apple trees. I could hear shouting in the distance however, and I assumed from this that Mr. Swint (the Farm Manager) had been appraised of the bear’s presence and was coming to our assistance. In the hope of encountering him on the way I decided to dash straight for the main farm building, but had taken only a few strides when I fell into a hole filled with water and brush.
After a few moments’ reflection I realized that this must necessarily be either Banks’ pit or my own, since (to the best of my knowl
edge) there was no other similar construction in the orchard. It was the work of seconds to determine that if it were indeed Banks’ the bear was no longer present.
We started on the bear’s trail a few hours after dawn the next morning. Though I had been unable to mark the bear properly (my aerosol marking can, which had been in my hip pocket, had unfortunately discharged while I was evading him) Banks had succeeded (as he himself said) in “giving it to him right in the face” when he encountered the creature in the orchard while coming back to resume his post after a brief sojourn at the main farm building. Anticipating the return of Commissioner Cowly in the morning he had, a few seconds before, prudently “misplaced” his assault rifle in the mud; and since he had left the Kap-Tscher gun in his “blind” he had possessed nothing except the marking spray (“and his legs” as he humorously remarked) with which to defend himself from the bear. Luckily these had proved sufficient.
Wet weather, as Commissioner Cowly explained to me before we set out, holds scent and is thus ideal for displaying the talents of trailing dogs. This day was ideal, the rain of the night preceding having continued almost until our “jump off” time, when it gave way to sleet. The dogs were whimpering with excitement as they were led out, and had several times to be restrained from returning to the truck. “Wanderer” as “Commissioner Cowly” explained to me, would be put on the scent first. “The best method,” he told me (to quote him directly), “of working with a bloodhound is to allow him to smell some possession or article of clothing of the prey he is to seek; a handkerchief, underwear, or a dirty sock is ideal.” I was about to ask if it would be necessary to “start” the dogs with a tuft of hair torn from the bear’s pelt (since it would be manifestly impossible to use an article of clothing—properly so called—except, possibly, in the case of a fugitive circus bear) when I noticed Banks carrying a soiled handkerchief. For a moment, I confess, I felt incredulity; but it soon developed that the handkerchief was Banks’ own, and contained one of the bear’s droppings (technically called a “spore”), a number of which had been discovered near the spot where I had inadvertently touched his nose. “Wanderer” took one long sniff and howled mournfully—the overture of the hunting song of the pack!
It was good to be alive that morning in the rain-gray woods, where the icicles shaped themselves at the tip of every leaf. The dogs were soon out of sight, and we—Commissioner Cowly, Mr. Swint, Banks, and I—followed them by sound alone, Banks interpreting every note of the canine chorus for us: “Hear that,” he (Alexander “Sandy” Banks, the Preditor Control Agent employed by the Wildlife Management Commission) would say, “that’s Nip!” Or, “That’s Tuck!”
We had traversed nearly three miles of rough, wooded country (bears are extraordinary travelers despite their normally relaxed and even indolent dispositions, and when pursued by half a dozen or so large dogs followed by men with guns will often keep up the chase hour after hour until they are ready to drop, although on other occasions they may seek to escape by climbing trees, hitching rides on trains, or other such sleights) when the hounds met their first check. We found them milling about in an open lumbering “cut” (informally used, after the lumbering operations were complete, for solid wastes disposal) through which a small stream ran. “They’ve lost the scent,” Commissioner Cowly explained, “and are casting for it.” At that moment Sweet Sue “got the part,” and raising her head she voiced a series of yelps more highly pitched and feminine than those of the larger dogs and, having thus announced her discovery, disappeared into the trees. “Gawdam dog’s on a rabbit track,” “Sandy” Banks commented.
“I don’t believe it,” I replied. “I think she has found the bear.”
I should have known better than to pit my slender skills against those of such an experienced woodsman as (Sandy) Banks. “Bear went down that creek,” he explained to me, “t’ throw off the dogs. The scent,” (spore) “won’t last on running water.”
It seemed obvious that the ice was too thin to have supported the weight of the bear, and I pointed this out to Banks, but he directed my attention to a series of holes, each about a foot long and six inches in width, in which the ice was just beginning to re-form. “Them’s his steps,” he said. “You notice how they’re only about as far apart as a bear would walk? And if you’ll look real close at the back edges of them you’ll see blood where he cut hisself.”
Traces of this sort (technically known as “spore”) are most important, and I was stepping out onto the ice to examine them for myself when, quite unexpectedly, the treacherous surface gave way beneath one of my boots, which was plunged to the calf into the icy water. Fortunately the tough leather saved my Achilles’ tendon from injury, but before I could draw it out the boot was filled to the top. This occasioned a good laugh all around, but it was one in which, since I was already feeling somewhat ill (I believe as a result of the apples I had eaten the preceding night), I was unable to join as heartily as I would have wished. “Got a boot full of water, don’t you,” Mr. Swint remarked when the laughter had subsided. “You better take it off.”
I was already attempting to do this, and eventually, with the help of a knife I borrowed from Banks, I succeeded, dumped out the freezing water, and squeezed out my sock. My foot, I noticed, had become an interesting blue color.
At that moment a small gray rabbit came dashing out of the woods, dodging backward and forward in that erratic way rabbits have, and throwing up sprays of icy water as it passed. Mr. Swint threw my boot at him, and Commissioner Cowly a stick, the latter so well aimed that it broke the animal’s back. We were just going over to look at him (before he dragged himself to safety, for he was still able to make fairly good time by pulling himself along with his front paws, and the dogs did not seem to have noticed him) when “Sweet Sue” emerged from the woods with remarkable speed, followed by what I at first took to be a much larger dog. Before Banks could bring the Kap-Tscher gun into play both animals had disappeared into the trees again. It was (or had been) the bear.
All was not lost, however. Old “Wanderer” picked up the trail as soon as it was pointed out to him by Banks, and in a trice he—with Nip and “Tuck” not far behind, and trailed by Lancelot (the bull terrier) who up until then had appeared somewhat disenchanted with the entire proceeding—was running on a headhigh scent. In a few minutes their baying was transformed into shrill yelping. “They’ve got him!” Commissioner Cowly exclaimed, crouching to halt Wanderer who, having apparently been savagely used by the bear, was just then running past us in the opposite direction. Maddened by excitement the dog fastened to his hand, and it was necessary for Mr. Swint to kick him (“Wanderer”) several times before he would let go.
A few steps further and we were at the spot where “Bruin” had taken his stand. Salt water from an oil drilling operation had killed fifty or a hundred acres of timber here, and his back was protected by a huge, dead oak. Here he stood ready to maul with utmost viciousness any of the dogs who ventured to attack him. I raised my camera for a picture, and as I did so I could see from the expression of despair that crossed that coal black face that he believed it to be a gun. His look of relief when the camera made only a harmless click was quite comic. It was at this moment, however, that “Sweet Sue” who, more than any of the other dogs had been holding him at bay, standing (brave dog!) squarely before him and keeping up a constant high-pitched yipping, was seized by the hindquarters by “Lancelot” the bull terrier, who perhaps feared that she was getting too close to the bear. Unfortunately, with that “dead game” instinct of his race the white dog did not release her even when he had succeeded in dragging her backward several yards into a clump of withered bushes, and for a few seconds it appeared that the bear might attack us. Banks saved the day, putting four Kap-Tscher darts into the brute in rapid succession, after which Mr. Swint and I took turns until the supply of darts was exhausted. Even so, Commissioner Cowly, always solicitous for the welfare of anyone even remotely connected to his department, insisted on
Banks striking the head of the now unconscious bear with a large stone before he would declare it officially “safe.” Then—too soon it seemed!—the hunt was over. The quarry lay still, and the thought came to me, as it always does at the end of such adventures, When and Where shall I ever again find such friends or such sport? And will anybody buy this? There was no sound in all the woods save the thrashing and panting of the five dogs in the dead bushes and the soft hiss of “Banks’” spray can as he “marked” the bear.
HOMECOMING DAY
The Changeling
I suppose whoever finds these papers will be amazed at the simplicity of their author, who put them under a stone instead of into a mailbox or a filing cabinet or even a cornerstone—these being the places where most think it wise to store up their writings. But consider, is it not wiser to put papers like these into the gut of a dry cave as I have done?
For if a building is all it should be, the future will spare it for a shrine; and if your children’s sons think it not worth keeping, will they think the letters of the builders worth reading? Yet that would be a surer way than a filing cabinet. Answer truly: Did you ever know of papers to be read again once they entered one of these, save when some clerk drew them out by number? And who would seek for these?
There is a great, stone-beaked, hook-billed snapping turtle living under the bank here, and in the spring, when the waterfowl have nested and brooded, he swims beneath their chicks more softly than any shadow. Sometimes they peep once when he takes their legs, and so they have more of life than these sheets would have once the clacking cast iron jaw of a mailbox closed on them.