by Marian Engel
Chapter 22
That night, lying clothed and tenderly beside him by the fire, she was a babe, a child, an innocent. The loons’ cries outside were sharp,and for her.The reeds rubbed against each other and sang her a song. Lapped in his fur, she was wrapped in a basket and caressed by little waves. The breath of kind beasts was upon her. She felt pain, but it was a dear, sweet pain that belonged not to mental suffering, but to the earth. She smelled moss and clean northern flowers. Her skin was silk and the air around her was velvet. The pebbles in the night water gleamed with a beauty that was their own value, not a jeweller’s.She lay with
him until the morning birds began to sing. What had passed to her from him she did not know. Certainly it was not the seed of heroes, or magic, or any astounding virtue, for she continued to be herself. But for one strange, sharp moment she could feel in her pores and the taste of her own mouth that she knew what the world was for.She felt not that she was at last human, but that she was at last clean. Clean and simple and proud. She went down to the water’s edge and watched the miracle of the dawn. She felt the sinister pike sliding through the reeds where they belonged. She watched the last gathering summer birds, and felt the eyes of the goshawks upon her, without fear. The water was cold on her feet, but the air was good and gracious.She turned around, and the white house behind her stood frail and simple too: no longer a symbol, but an entity. She went in and continued to pack her tidy files. Later in the day, a man in a red and black mackinaw, a huge man with a shock of black hair, came to the back door. He was Joe King, nephew of Lucy Leroy.He knew she was going, he said, and he and Lucy would like to take care of the bear for the winter. Well, she thought, well. It has come. But the time felt ripe. She enquired about Lucy’s health, which was holding up. “She’ll be glad to see him. She sure is stuck on that bear. She says she don’t have nobody to talk to. She hopes you made friends with him.““I used to go swimming with him.” “He looks in good shape.” “I’m going to miss him, but I can hardly take him to Toronto.” “If we leave him here, some goddamn hunter will get him.““You won’t kill him when Lucy goes, will you?” “Only if he’s sick. We don’t eat bear paws any more. Anyways, Lucy will make us promise. You don’t have to fear.” She went up to him and gently put his chain on. “Lucy said you’d get on good with him,” Joe said. “Oh, I got on good with him. He’s a fine fellow.” “When are you going back to Toronto?” “In a couple ofdays. I have to leave the house in good shape.And there are a few last papers to deal with.” “I don’t suppose you found any buried treasure. They didn’t know much, people like the carys. They were tourists.” “Compared to you and Lucy.” She walked with them down to the dock.Then she went back and got the remains of the chow for them. When she returned, the bear was already ensconced in the motorboat, quite contented. She rubbed his ruff affectionately, and scratched his small gristly ears. “Good-bye,” she said. Joe started the motor. The bear twitched at the noise and his tongue flung out sideways and licked her hand.Then Joe pushed off with a casual good-bye and she was left standing, watching the bear recede down the channel, a fat dignified old woman with his nose to the wind in the bow ofthe boat. He did not look back. She did not expect him to. She swept out the house, packed her belongings, and took her gear to her car in stages. She left the Cary laundry in town, including the blooded sheets, in Homer’s name. She went to the bank and drew out enough money to settle Homer’s enormous account. She went back and sat in the empty, enormous house. She had not found its secrets. It was a fine building, but it had no secrets. It spoke only of a family who did not want to be common clay, who feared more than anything being lost to history.With their fine tables and velvet pelmets and pierglasses, the English wives had proclaimed their aristocracy among these Indian summer islands. Much good it did them, she thought, perishing in the wilderness. Colonel Jocelyn was the only one who knew anything: how to tan a lynx. Up in the office, she took the Rowlandson print down from the wall: it belonged to a time of her life that was long gone. She dusted the books and locked the cabinets. Against the regulations she wrapped both the first edition of Wacousta and the Bewick in Times Literary Supplements to take away. Some winter, snowmobilers would break in. They would take the telescope for its brass screws, and smash the celestial and terrestial globes. Well, let the world be smashed: that was the way things were bound to go. The bear was safe. She would make these two books safe.Over her collection of Cary’s notes she hesitated. They seemed to belong more to her than to the Institute. But in the end, she put them in an envelope and left them in the desk drawer marked w C Cary’s notes on bears.” She did not need them any more. There was an immense peace in performing these duties, which she did thoroughly and well.She makes her little house to shine, she thought. She stood in the tree crow’s nest and took a last farewell of Cary’s impressive view. She went to the beaver pond where she had never seen a beaver.The goshawks were gone. She surveyed the ruin of her garden. She stood in the doorway of the bear’s old byre and inhaled his randy pong. Really, she thought, really. It was late afternoon when she had cleaned out the kitchen, leaving a few canned goods for passers-by and a clean counter, and carried the last of her things to the boat. The river was choppy, for an autumn wind had sprung up.She went up the river slowly.She felt tender, serene. She remembered evenings of sitting by the fire with the bear’s head in her lap. She remembered the night the stars fell on her body and burned and burned. She remembered guilt, and a dream she had had where her mother made her write letters of apology to the Indians for having had to do with a bear, and she remembered the claw that had healed guilt. She felt strong and pure. Leaving the keys at Homer’s, she had a farewell drink with him over the counter, away from Babs’ eyes.He promised to put the shutters on the windows and look after the place all winter and bill the Institute.“Lucy’ll die happy now she has that bear back,” he said.“He’s a good bear.” “I guess he is. I wouldn’t know myself.“She remembered the odd ridge ofHomer’s upper plate the day she made love to him. “Well,good-bye.“Shaking his hand.“Thanks for everything .I didn’t make much of a go of the garden.” “You did all right. You’ll be up again?” “I don’t think so. I’m thinking of changing jobs. Time to move along.” “Come fora holiday. I’ll give you a special rate on a tent-site.” “Thanks, Homer.” She drove south all night, taking the long, overland route. She wore a thick pullover and drove with the windows open until the smell ofthe land stopped being the smell ofwater and trees and became cities and gas fumes. It was a brilliant night, all star-shine, and overhead the Great Bear and his thirty-seven thousand virgins kept her company.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22