by Mick Jackson
Bears of England
Mick Jackson
Contents
Title Page
1 Spirit Bears
2 Sin-Eating Bears
3 Bears in Chains
4 Circus Bears
5 Sewer Bears
6 Civilian Bears
7 Bears by Night
8 The Great Bear
Author biography
Copyright
Bears of England
1
Spirit Bears
In the days before electric light and oil lamps, the night imposed its own abysmal tyranny, and daylight’s surrender was measured out in strict division. Sunset gave way to Twilight, just as Evening preceded Candle-Time. Bedtime was hope’s last bastion. Beyond that, there was nothing but Dead of Night.
Dead of Night was like an entombment – a heavy stone slowly lowered onto every home. It eclipsed the past and obscured the future. Hope and reason crept away. And in their absence the world was altered. The night’s actions were a mystery.
Filled to the brim with every sort of ignorance and superstition, no Englishman would dare venture out at Dead of Night, for fear of being swallowed up by it. Every door was locked and bolted, and remained so right through those awful hours, until deliverance finally arrived at first cock-crow. Prior to that, every scratch and scrape, every rattle of leaf was thought to be the work of some demon, some twisted malevolence out among the trees. And in the villagers’ imagination that evil found its most common incarnation in the form of Spirit Bears.
These night-time bears would come by in ones and twos, clawing at doors and windows, and on stormy nights run riot in great gangs and turn the whole place upside down. Then, just before dawn they would slip away, back down the secret paths to their own wild world.
Whenever a villager sensed the presence of a Spirit Bear it was traditional to blow on an old goat’s horn, to warn the neighbours. But, as anyone who’s had the misfortune to hear such a thing will testify, a goat’s horn produces the most mournful sound imaginable, capable of inducing a mood of utter wretchedness in even the sunniest soul. What’s worse, as each neighbour was alerted they would take up their own goat’s horn and do their own bit of blowing. So that in no time at all the night would be awash with a goat’s horn chorus and any prospect of sleep would be well and truly dashed.
‘Bears abroad,’ the horns insisted. ‘Bears abroad.’
At that time, most of England was bedevilled, to some degree or other, by bear-spirits, but one village in particular had managed to drive itself to the very verge of distraction – a small hamlet of no more than twenty dwellings, which clung to the edge of one of the larger woods.
The inhabitants were of the opinion that they had long been under siege by an especially wicked gang of Spirit Bears and had done everything in their power to ward them off. They had tied old rags to the branches of trees along the wood’s perimeter and cast quantities of salt, in a variety of significant shapes and patterns, across the woodland floor. But the bears persisted. Until, in the end, the villagers decided that the only way to resolve the situation was to send one of their number out into the woods to try and inveigle their way among them and, if possible, to negotiate.
After much discussion and casting of votes it was unanimously decided that the villager best suited to such a task was Awd Tom, his candidacy based in no small part on the fact that he was old (as his name suggested), somewhat slow on the uptake, and without a wife or children, so that if, heaven forbid, he should go off into the woods and not come back his absence might not be too keenly felt.
Tom was informed of the decision when he returned from a kindling-gathering expedition. He rather had a hunch that something was afoot. The entire village had lined the lane, and were cheering and applauding him, which, as far as he could remember, had not happened after any previous kindling-gathering trip.
When he heard the news he was momentarily flattered – proud, even – to be trusted with such a responsibility. But the daunting nature of his little mission soon began to make itself known to him, and continued to make itself known, in ever more vivid detail, for all the hours leading up to him being sent out into the dark.
Soon after sunset, two of the older women led him round to one of the barns and set about dressing him in such a manner that he might move among the bears without drawing too much attention. The bears were woodland creatures, the women reasoned, and would in all likelihood, be made up of such stuff to be found in such a place. So with lengths of twine they bound twigs and moss about him, then wove leaves and kindling in between, adorning Awd Tom so comprehensively with foliage, that by the time they were done and he took a walk up and down the barn, the weight and hindrance of all those bits of twig and branch quite transformed him. And this so unsettled the women that they made their excuses and headed home to take strong drink to calm their nerves.
The arrival of Twilight filled Awd Tom with even more anxiety than usual, and round about Candle-Time, Young Peter, a man who had high hopes of one day being the village’s leader (and prime mover behind Tom’s nomination earlier in the day), came by to offer a little encouragement.
‘The way I see it,’ he told the man in the suit of moss and twigs, ‘to be able to move among the bears without being too conspicuous, you must do your utmost to think like a bear.’
He stopped, to see if his words had penetrated the bark and bracken. Two eyes blinked, deep amid the twigs.
‘One might almost say …’ Peter paused, to try and find the right way of putting it, ‘… that you must become a bear,’ he said.
Awd Tom remained quite silent, but his eyes darted to left and right, which Young Peter took as a sign of cognition. Then Peter wished him well and went off to barricade himself in his cottage, like everyone else.
None of the villagers witnessed Tom’s final preparations. In fact, as time passed Awd Tom himself had an ever-weakening grasp of what went on in that old barn. For, as instructed, he did his utmost to assume a bear-like physicality and an ursine state of mind, which culminated in a series of ritualistic movements that so possessed him he slowly became aware how he left behind his Awd Tom-ness and began to inhabit a much wilder, more primitive place.
Through the shuffled steps of his own strange invocation and the gradual abandonment of his civilised mind he induced in himself something almost trance-like. Awd Tom’s eyes became a bear’s eyes. And the only thoughts in that tight briar of twig and bramble became those of a Spirit Bear.
By the time Dead of Night finally arrived every villager stood by their window, secretly sickened by their own part in the conspiracy, yet undeniably excited about what might come to pass. If they were hoping that Awd Tom might stage some grand departure, however, they were disappointed. All they caught was a fleeting glimpse of a leafy shadow as it hurried past them and disappeared into the trees.
As the night wore on the villagers kept their stations. The moon was down. There were the usual eerie bustles and scuffles, normally attributed to the agitations of the Spirit Bears, but among them now were unfamiliar yelps and screeches, and at one point a sustained period of whinnying, which fairly made the villagers’ blood run cold.
The winter nights were always long but this was by far the longest. It seemed to last an eternity. After that initial flurry there was nothing but silence. The village had never known a stillness of such intensity and it terrified them almost as much as all the comings and goings of the Spirit Bears, until at last the first cock’s crow broke the spell, the doors were thrown open and everyone raced out, to see if they could find any trace of dear Awd Tom.
A low mist covered the ground and the villagers stepped nervously into it. Their task wasn’t helped by the fact that Tom’s suit of le
af and twig created such a convincing camouflage. It was one of the children who finally found him, a fair way into the woods, slumped against a fallen tree. His eyes were open – wide open – but utterly vacant, as if the mind behind them still operated, but on a quite different plane.
The villagers bore him home, still decked out in all his foliage. Then the same women who’d so meticulously arranged the leaves and twigs around him now began to carefully pick those same leaves and twigs apart. It was several hours before Awd Tom was able to string a sentence together – long hours in which the women did their best to revive him by rubbing boiled hyssop into his shoulders and mopping his brow with tansy and valerian.
Before he had uttered a single word, the entire village gathered in the barn to see what sort of shape the old man had been reduced to and hoping for news regarding the bears. And after a while they managed to establish from his various grunts and nods in response to their many questions that he had indeed made contact with them, had moved among them and, most significantly, had struck some sort of deal.
‘You mean, the bears are willing to settle?’ said one of the villagers.
Awd Tom nodded.
‘And they’re willing to leave us in peace?’ said another.
Tom nodded again.
This provoked a great deal of hugging and cheering, and quite a few tears of sheer, blessed relief. In the silence that followed, someone dared to ask, ‘And do they want for anything in return?’
Awd Tom nodded his tired old head again, and lifted a finger – a finger still covered with the forest’s own filth and dirt. His outstretched arm swung around the assembled company until it pointed squarely at Young Peter.
According to Tom’s instructions, when he was finally able to articulate them (and which were, after all, nothing but the instructions passed on to him by the Spirit Bears), Young Peter was bound and left out in the woods in a rough sort of cage for three nights running, so that the Bears could get a closer look at him. Apparently, they were intrigued by the incredible self-confidence in one of such tender years.
The first night was probably the worst for poor Peter. By the end of it his hair had turned quite white. But by the third night he had calmed down a fair bit, which is to say that he had stopped screaming and shouting and banging his head against the bars of his cage. And from that point forward Peter – or Quiet Peter as he came to be known – was much less prone to scheming and speechifying, and more likely to sit alone in a corner, fussing with an old scrap of leather or a piece of wood.
It is quite remarkable how much an individual’s status can shift in such a short period. While Quiet Peter withdrew to the shadows, Tom came to the fore, assuming the role of something like a local shaman, which is quite a step up from kindling-gatherer. He lived a leisurely life, consulted on any matter which required a little wisdom, as befitted a man of his age. But once a year he would have the women dress him up in his suit of twigs and at Dead of Night go out into the woods, which only added to his reputation and, by all accounts, seemed to do him the world of good.
It is harder to say what became of the Spirit Bears. Depending on one’s perspective, they either followed those secret paths and byways back to their own dark world or retreated into the deeper recesses of the villagers’ imagination. But it would be a brave man who could say for certain which is the safer place for them.
2
Sin-Eating Bears
A bear must eat. It is a Law of Nature. A bear without food will quickly tend towards ill temper, and bad-tempered bears do nothing but make life difficult for everyone else. Indeed, it could be said that a bear’s need for food is the very foundation of Anglo-bear relations. And that, in its way, such hunger brought about the only period in English history when the bear was accorded, first, respect, then, albeit briefly, something approaching reverence.
Early English Man had tried his hand at bear-consumption, with decidedly poor returns. The consumption, by necessity, had to be preceded by a little hunting, but just as every bear-hunt neared its natural conclusion the bear had a habit of turning the tables and making a meal of the very people who had been planning to dine on him.
Chastened, the Early English hunter-gatherer retreated to his homestead to raise chickens and rabbits and other creatures which might more easily end up in the pot. And the bears were left to roam and generally go about their business, just as long as their business did not too greatly interfere with Early English Man.
This is possibly not the place to speculate whether the English are more prone to sinning than any other nation. Certainly, they are just as keen to remove any stain or blemish in this world before going on to the next. And it is here that the Common Bear, which had proved so unreliable when it came to being hunted, finally found a place for itself in Early English life.
A tradition had long existed whereby an individual of lowly means and meagre income, and in other words in want of a solid meal, would partake of bread and ale before a house in mourning, and in so doing, take on the sins of the departed prior to their Judgement Day.
It was a job no sane man would aspire to. In fact, it was the sort of job guaranteed to keep one at the very periphery of society. So it is no surprise that there came a point when such sin-eaters decided that they had had their fill. Perhaps the accumulated sin began to weigh too heavily on them. Perhaps they feared that when their own time came to meet their Maker no man or woman would be sufficiently hungry to take up their own lamentable load. But traditions change. Sometimes they evolve by increment. Sometimes that change happens overnight.
An old man died. At dawn, bread and ale was put out, according to convention. The widow-wife took up a seat beside her husband, who was laid out on his bed. The sun rose and slowly headed off across the firmament. The widow sat. The widow waited. In fact, she sat and waited right through the day. Outside, the bread grew stale; midges danced about the beer. But the eater failed to show.
At dusk the widow got to her feet and went and looked out of the window – was, in fact, about to fetch the bread and ale, when she saw a figure coming down the lane. She stood stock-still as the bear slowly advanced towards her. It was a middle-aged bear, slightly mangy, and as it ambled along it kept an eye out for any threat or sudden movement. At first, it went straight past the cottage. Then it stopped, backed up a little, and had another look.
In an ideal world, the widow later admitted, she would have had a human do the eating. But in the circumstances she was just grateful that the sins were being eaten up at all. As the bear dined she studied it, for any signs of corruption. She was well aware of several sinful acts which would require absolution and had suspicions regarding another two or three. But the bear just ate and drank with apparent indifference. It scratched an ear on a couple of occasions, but the widow decided not to read too much into that.
When the bear finished with the bread it brushed its paws together, to clean the crumbs off. Then it looked up and saw the old woman, watching at the window. On her life, she said, the brute looked directly at her, its eyes penetrating her so absolutely that she felt it examine her very soul. It duly identified her as the wife of the fellow whose sins it had just ingested. And as it continued to hold her in its gaze the bear gave her a single solemn nod. Just a little one, she said, but unmistakable, as if acknowledging some of the misery she’d had to endure. Then it swigged the last of the beer, wiped its mouth with the back of a paw and carried on its way.
Within a matter of months the role of sin-eater had passed to hungry bear from hungry peasant. Of course, the bears were quite oblivious. All they knew was bread and beer. They were vaguely aware of the recent increase in its availability. They may even have had a suspicion that such stuff was being left out for them. But they had no notion of the service they were meant to be providing in return.
But this didn’t hinder the way people chose to perceive them, which, increasingly, took on a mystical bent. Stories began to circulate of hunters, deep in the woods, stumbling
upon Bear Conferences – secret ceremonies where a bear stood at a makeshift pulpit and preached to vast bear-congregations. Others spoke, in hushed tones, about the existence of Bear Monasteries, high up in the mountains – the sort of peaks unreachable by anything but a bear – where they would sit, for days on end and privately ponder the universe. One or two (admittedly mostly idiots and degenerates) even claimed to have lost their way or suffered some dreadful injury and regained consciousness in a cave-hospital, where they were tended by bears.
This marked the beginning of what has come to be known as the era of the Holy Bear: a sainted creature who could heal a man simply by raising a paw in his direction. And there was no shortage of otherwise quite sensible people prepared to testify that they had personally felt the benefit of the ‘healing paw’.
With hindsight, such an estimation was plainly unsustainable, and so it proved to be. Their fall from grace was swift and brutal. They were cast out from their role as healer and mystic just as quickly as they had been sworn in. The change in attitude can be traced back to a particular incident when a bear, having eaten free bread and drunk free beer one evening, retired to its cave in order to get some sleep. It slept long and hard, but slowly found its dreams invaded by something foreign: human thought … human memory.
Something sinister had wormed its way into its psyche. The bear twitched and turned, but could not wake. Then it saw blood. Heard a voice cry, ‘Murder!’ Felt human guilt rise up and flood its soul.
The bear woke to find itself charging through the forest. It clutched its head as if it brimmed with bees. And without knowing why, the bear headed back towards the village where it had taken bread and ale the previous day.