Bearwalker

by Joseph Bruchac

  Other trails, of course, led out of Camp Chuckamuck. They were all hiking paths or old overgrown logging roads that snowmobilers used in the winter months. You couldn’t get a car or a truck down any of them. And the shortest of those trails was twenty miles around the mountain with two rivers to cross before reaching the nearest town.

  No one was supposed to be coming in to Chuckamuck until our bus driver returned to pick us up. But that was not scheduled for another three days. We were stuck until then unless someone did something.

  “Well,” Mr. Osgood had said when the road situation had been explained to everyone, “I appear to have been elected.”

  As the camp caretaker, he saw it as his job to go out and make contact with those who could bring in earthmoving equipment and open the road again. With dozers and a backhoe, it would take no more than a day or two. The idea of a long walk didn’t bother him at all.

  “Ten miles is naught but a random scoot,” he said. “But I do not expect to have to hoof it that far.” He reached into the pocket of his green wool jacket and pulled out a spark plug. “I’ll just pop this into Matilda and ride in style.”

  Matilda was Mr. Osgood’s all-terrain vehicle, a four-wheeler that he kept parked under a tarp a mile down the road past the now vaporized explosives shed. Keeping Matilda spark-plugless was his way of ensuring no one else took her for a joy ride.

  His wife handed him the backpack that he called his “old kit bag.” It contained a thermos, a sandwich, and a flashlight.

  “All I need aside from Betsy,” he said, tapping the stock of the old single-shot .22 rifle that was slung over his left shoulder.

  I wish I could have stopped him. But what could I have said or done? What did I know besides the fact that I had awful feelings of impending doom?

  And what can I say now as everyone sits here after dinner, relaxed and listening to Mr. and Mrs. Philo tell their stories? Even Asa and his crew are enjoying it. So much that they seem to have completely forgotten about making my life miserable. As if.

  Mr. Wilbur looks over at me, nods, and gives me a big thumbs-up. He’s noticed that Tara is sitting right next to me here in the corner on the floor. Somehow she seems to have adopted me as her little pet. She even keeps nudging me now and then, peering over my shoulder to see what I’m writing in my notebook. But I cover it with my hand whenever she does that.

  “Aren’t the Philos just the sweetest?” she whispers in my ear. “Are you writing down their stories?”

  “Just writing,” I whisper back. I have to say something. For whatever reason—pity, maybe—she is being nice to me and it does feel good to have her leaning against me like this.

  I straighten my shoulders. I have to think. I have to keep my eyes and ears open. Everybody else believes that it’s all under control here. That the road being blocked is the worst that can happen. I just know it isn’t.

  I look up to scan the room. I’ve chosen this place in the corner not because it’s close to the front where Mr. and Mrs. Philo have now moved from talking about the history of Chuckamuck to telling Adirondack tall tales. I’ve chosen it because from here I can see the whole room. I can see who is here and also who is not here.

  And it is the thought of that one who is not here, the one I haven’t seen since shortly after the explosion went off, that fills me with dread.

  Where is he? That is one of the two questions that keeps running through my head. The other is, Why am I the only one who is worried? For a while, before the Philos got here, it seemed as if Mr. Wilbur shared my uncertainty. But when Mr. and Mrs. Philo arrived he got all relaxed. In fact, he now seems as happy as a clam in its shell. Even though they are just two frail old people, Mr. Wilbur seems to think their being here will make everything turn out right.

  I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. I sat at the same table where he and the Philos were talking during dinner and got the picture that they were like family to him. When he was my age he’d come to Camp Chuckamuck as a scared, self-conscious eighth grader and whatever they had done had given him self-confidence and courage. Being back in their presence made him feel like that little boy again being protected by the two people he trusted more than any others.

  I appreciated that. Even though she was old (but not as old as Mrs. Philo), Grama Kateri sort of does that for me when I am around her. When you know that someone loves you and has faith in you, it changes things. It doesn’t take away the pain of losing people you love—or make you grow two feet taller overnight—but it does make you feel less alone.

  However, it ought not to make you feel so secure that you lose sight of what is really happening around you. Mr. Wilbur was the one who said that something wasn’t right with these people who came to replace the Philos as the camp staff. Wasn’t he the one who was trying to convince Mrs. Smiler how incompetent they seemed? Didn’t he seem to think that the one they call Walker White Bear seemed really strange? He was the one who said how much money the camp property was worth if it was sold. Didn’t he hear the Philos say that they came here because he invited them? Except he didn’t—so who did? He seems to have forgotten about that mystery. And what about the road being closed by that supposedly accidental dynamite blast that also cut the phone lines? I’ve been asking myself those questions nonstop for the last few hours and gradually it has all come together, like the pieces of a puzzle. Can’t Mr. Wilbur put two and two together? It all makes sense to me—too much sense.

  I look at my journal, where I’ve written it all down. It adds up to even more than four. It adds up to the fact that we are all in terrible danger and that we are trapped.

  I’ve been trying to get Mr. Wilbur alone to talk to him since before the Philos arrived. I stare hard at him, trying to get his attention. It doesn’t work. He’s sitting up front, his eyes on Mr. and Mrs. Philo, a little smile on his lips. Totally engrossed in their stories. So is Mrs. Smiler and the three parent chaperones who’ve seated themselves around the back of the room to keep an eye on any potentially restless students.

  But the only restless student is me. Where is he? What is he planning to do?

  “Where’s who?” Tara whispers to me and I realize that I’ve been talking out loud to myself. Fortunately in a mumble, but loud enough for her to hear. She’s trying to look again at what I’ve been writing in my secret journal.

  “Nobody,” I whisper back. A little too loudly. A few heads turn in our direction, but then are drawn just as quickly back to the front where Mr. Philo is talking about the really cold winter they once had here at Camp Chuckamuck.

  “It was so cold,” he says with a straight face, “that when we tried to talk while we were outside, our words froze in a cloud around our mouths. We had to pry those frozen words off, lug them back in, and thaw them out on the stove.”

  “That was the only way,” Mrs. Philo chirps, right on cue, “that we could carry on a conversation.”

  People start laughing, but Tara isn’t giving up. “Who are you talking about?” she insists, poking me in my shoulder again. A part of me notices that she is doing that in just about the same way Mrs. Philo is now jabbing her finger at her husband up front. “Tell me or you are in big trouble, buster,” Tara says, shaking a fist in front of my face in a mock threat.

  I close my journal and slip it into the deep front pocket of my shirt. I shouldn’t answer her. But her good-natured teasing unnerves me. I’m not used to a girl paying attention to me, especially one I have always secretly liked. The next thing I know, I hear myself answering her question.

  “The one they called Walker White Bear,” I say quietly.

  “Oh,” Tara whispers back. “Him. Didn’t you hear them say that since Mr. Osgood was gone, Mr. White Bear was the one in charge of splitting the wood and then keeping the big campfire going back in the woods till it’s time for us to gather there? That’s where he is now. He’s probably sitting out there in the woods by the fire now, waiting for us to finish in here and then come outside.”

  I shou
ld have figured it out. Despite the road being closed and the phones being out, we are going to go right back to our original schedule. Which includes a walk through the dark woods to the primitive gathering area and storytelling around the campfire.

  Tara hugs herself and rocks back a little. “This is all so exciting, isn’t it, Baron?”

  I don’t answer her this time. I feel as if there is a big cold stone in my stomach.

  He’s waiting outside for us. And like foolish rabbits hopping into a mountain lion’s den, we are all about to go out there to him.

  11

  Lights

  “You can never have enough flashlights.” That is what Grama Kateri said as she helped me get my things together for the trip to Chuckamuck. Was it just last night when she said that? Was it just this morning when she hugged me good-bye and I walked out the door of her trailer and heard its rattly aluminum door bang shut? Right now it feels as if it were weeks ago, or even in another lifetime. So much has happened in only eleven hours.

  But I am feeling very glad right now that she said those words, which were accompanied by her handing me a big plastic bag from the Double Discount Store. It held six flashlights of varying shapes and sizes and the batteries to go with them. One of them, a mini Maglite, has a band with a Velcro strip so I can put it around my forehead like a miner’s light. That small light is in my left coat pocket, its weight balanced against the two cigarette-lighter-sized disposable flashlights in my right pocket. Two others, both medium-sized ones, are in my hip pockets. The black one is just a flashlight, but the red one has a laser pointer and a panic alarm in it.

  The last and biggest of my six flashlights, which is eighteen inches long and as heavy as a club, is in my right hand. It has some kind of high-intensity bulb in it. When I turned it on as I stepped out of the meeting hall, it shot out a beam like a searchlight as I pointed it toward the cloudy sky.

  “Whoa, Baron,” Mr. Wilbur said. “Turn that off, buddy. If those clouds weren’t up there you’d be blinding the astronauts in the international space station.”

  So I turned it off.

  “If you turn your flashlight on while we are around the campfire, it will be confiscated,” Mr. Mack had then announced, smiling all the time. And he had kept smiling as, one after another, he had taken away the flashlights that had been flicked on by various campers who were either forgetful or testing the boundaries. Each flashlight had gone into the canvas bag behind the log where Mr. Mack sat. Finally, by my estimation, I was the only kid left with a flashlight. I could feel Mr. Mack just waiting to swoop down on me. No way. I was not about to have my light taken away, even if it did have to remain turned off.

  But I’m glad to have the solid feel of it in my hand, especially since the only visible illumination here is the campfire. The last light pole of the camp is back at the trailhead, which is around a little hill that cuts off the fire circle from sight of the buildings of Camp Chuckamuck.

  I’d feel better if my club flashlight were a gun of some kind. Preferably loaded with silver bullets. But the only gun in the whole of Camp Chuckamuck is Mr. Osgood’s old .22, and it’s not even here now because he took it with him.

  Mr. Philo has finished telling the story he was asked to share to start out the campfire gathering. I’ve been listening pretty close to it because it is one of my favorites and the very one I mentioned earlier. It’s the Mohawk tale of the boy who lived with the bears. The boy’s parents had died and the only one left to care for him was his uncle. But his uncle had a twisted mind and resented having to care for the boy. So he took him deep into the forest, tricked him into crawling into a cave, wedged a stone into its mouth to trap him there, and then left. The animals of the forest rescued the boy, and because he was an orphan they offered to adopt him and allowed him to choose which animal family he would join. He chose the bears.

  Mr. Philo’s voice isn’t the voice of an old man. It’s rich and deep, and he tells the story so well that I forget there’s anyone telling it. It’s as if the story is just happening around me, as if I’m that boy safe in the security of the mother bear’s protective presence. It makes me remember what it was like when my family was strong and whole, when both my mom and my dad were there with their arms around me.

  I’m so close to the fire that it seems as if sweat is getting into my eyes, rolling down my cheeks. I wipe my face on my sleeve. I don’t want anyone to think that I’m crying. It’s just sweat, that’s all.

  Mr. Philo finishes the story. Mr. Mack stands up and starts slapping his hands together. That huge pasted-on smile is back on his face. “Everyone!” he shouts. “Come on! Show your appreciation. Let’s all have a round of applause for the former director.”

  Everyone applauds, even though it breaks the mood. Which is what I think Mr. Mack intended. Then there is an awkward silence. Using the heavy wooden cane that he leaned on as we walked to the fire circle, Mr. Philo has lowered himself slowly down onto the bench next to his wife. She’s wrapping her blanket around his shoulders. He looks tired now. Mrs. Philo is whispering something into his ear and he is nodding wearily.

  “I have a story to share,” a heavy voice growls from the darkness behind Mr. Mack.

  12

  Real Stories

  Mr. Mack is standing up and clapping his hands. “Wonderful!” he gushes. “Now we are going to hear a real Native American story from a true Native American.”

  My fear is overcome, for the moment at least, by my disgust at this obnoxious man and the disrespect he has just shown to Mr. Philo with that one simple statement. As if the story he just shared with us was a lie.

  I don’t know anything about how boards work, but I wonder how the board of directors for Camp Chuckamuck ever chose Mr. Mack.

  Walker White Bear looms up from the darkness behind the camp director. He moves slowly as he takes the place of Mr. Philo on the slightly raised ground that elevates him above the rest of the circle. He’s not as tall as the old basketball star, but he’s a very big man. There’s menace in the way he walks, each step so heavy that it seems as if his feet are sinking into the ground. I shove my hand into my pocket and find the shape of my bear good luck charm. It’s just a carved piece of wood and I know I’m not being logical. But all I can think is that I need help. Just feeling it in my hand reassures me. A little.

  “There’s nothing as dangerous as a bear,” Walker White Bear begins. His voice comes from so deep in his chest that each word is like the thud of a drum. “They’re all teeth and claws. They’ll tear you apart if they get ahold of you, and rip your head off. I’ve been around bears. I’ve walked with bears. Never show any weakness to a bear. Stand your ground. Face them down. Comes to the point where it’s either kill or be killed, you have to be ready to do what needs to be done.”

  He looks around the circle of awed adolescent faces staring up at him. He has just about everyone here hypnotized. Not the Philos, though. And not Mr. Wilbur, who is sitting between the two old people with his arms around them. And not me.

  The one who calls himself Walker White Bear nods his head and smiles a closemouthed, self-satisfied smile.

  “Don’t expect any favors from a bear. Whatever you get from a bear, you got to take.” He reaches up one pawlike hand to grab the ugly claw necklace around his neck and shake it. “That story about a bear taking care of a child? Hrrrggghh!” His deep growling laugh shakes the air. “That’s not going to happen. You know what a bear would do to a child? Let me tell you what I saw when I was up in Alaska, up where they have real bears and not those measly little black bears you get around here. Up where they have grizzlies.”

  He pauses for dramatic effect. I know that whatever he says next is going to be unpleasant.

  “I was walking along a trail when I saw a little baby bear. It was up on a rock with its eyes closed. If any of you girls saw it you would have said it looked like a little teddy bear.”

  He slowly growls those words “little teddy bear” to make the mockery in
his tone even more emphatic.

  “Isn’t that cute? You probably would have wanted to give it a hug. But when I got closer, it wasn’t that cute to see. The whole lower half of its body was gone. One of those big bears had got hold of it.”

  “Sweet!” a voice interjects. I don’t have to look to recognize the voice as Asa’s. I want to tell him to shut up, but I hold my tongue. I don’t want to attract the attention of that big menacing, looming figure, have him realize how clearly I can see through the untruths that began with his very first statement.

  “Sweet,” Walker White Bear growls, nodding his head with pleasure as he repeats what Asa said. “That’s just the way a little baby bear tastes. A big old male bear will kill and cannibalize any bear cub it can get its claws on. Why, even a mama bear will eat her own little ones if she gets hungry enough. Kill or be killed. Eat or get eaten. That’s the real way of the world.”

  Walker White Bear pauses. I hope he’s done, but I’m wrong. He spreads his arms wide. Some of the kids closest to him shrink back at that gesture, which makes it look for a moment as if he is going to grab someone, but he turns it into a yawn and a stretch. His mouth opens a little wider than usual and for the briefest second I catch a glimpse of his eyeteeth before he puts his hand over his mouth to cover them. They’re not huge like those of a bear, but they are noticeably larger and sharper than most human canines. A shiver goes down my back. I look quickly down to avoid eye contact with him. I feel his inquiring gaze turned my way. The hairs on the back of my neck are standing up. Finally he looks away and starts talking again.

  “But that’s not the story I want to share with you. I know how much young folk love scary stories. And this is a story about this camp right here. A camp cook who was here over the summer brought her son with her. He was a big boy. He was quiet and seemed a little slow. The boys and girls who were here as campers were all from goood families…”