Then its claws came through one of the cracks. Just the tips appeared, white and sharp, twitching as they groped like a vampire’s fingers. They slid along with a rasping little sound that made my back shiver. But the bear pulled away, and the stones rattled as it walked around the boat.
It found its way underneath. I heard it clawing at the gravel, trying to dig out a passage. And soon, through the hole in the floor, I saw the gravel moving, falling into a pit that the bear was digging underneath me.
Its claws squealed on the rock. The floor heaved up against my feet.
The bear was right below me, tunneling into the beach. I stomped my feet on the floor, and for a moment it stopped. But then it started again, and the gravel kept flowing away, the pit getting deeper.
The claws appeared, raking through the gravel. A shaggy paw reached closer and closer.
The boat tilted. Just a tiny little bit, it rolled toward the bear. The huge log shifted on the hatch, and flakes of shell and sand came drifting down.
The digging stopped. I squinted through the planks and saw the bear lying on the beach, sprawled across the stones like an enormously fat old man. I imagined it trying to figure out what to do, how to get inside the boat. Or was it now content to lie and wait—for however long it took—knowing that sooner or later I would have to come out?
Shadows turned and stretched as the sun went by. The tide began to rise again. And still the bear lay on the beach. Wave after wave after wave came crashing up onto the stone, each one a little higher.
Hours passed before I heard a raven calling. I looked up through the hatch as Thursday appeared, drifting sideways on the wind. His long flight feathers curled and shifted as he kept himself level. His head tilted, and sunlight glinted on his eyes. Then he drew back his wings and dropped down to the boat, landing on the edge of the hatch.
I got to my feet and reached up, stroking the soft little feathers on his belly. He spoke to me first in his raven language, and then with real words, amazingly clear.
You’re finished. He puffed his wings. He tipped his head.
He was just making sounds, I assured myself. He was just repeating what he’d heard from the cabin guy. But he seemed too much like a prophet, like a little seer come to tell my future.
He crouched down and scraped my arm with his beak. It was a gentle, soothing thing to do, and I tickled the hairs on his nostrils. He always liked when I did that.
With a little cry he straightened up again. Like a rooster, he raised himself on his feet, with his wings flapping, and he started to shout—in raven again. He muttered and shouted as loudly as he could.
A moment later, the boat shook. There was a terrible crack of wood, a grinding of logs. The bear was back.
My raven kept screaming. The bear clawed at the planks. The darkened shadow it cast on the hull spread higher and higher, blotting out the light all the way to the top of the hull.
I was sure that the raven was shouting in fright. I couldn’t imagine any other reason. But I wished he would stop, because his cries were only drawing the bear toward the hatch.
From foot to foot, the raven hopped above me. His mouth wide open, he kept shouting his strange little cries. The boat groaned and shifted again. Then the raven flew away, and into its place came the bear. That huge, fur-covered head loomed above me. A paw reached down.
I dropped to the floor. The bear’s claws slashed above me, back and forth. With a grunt and a snarl, the bear changed its position and reached farther into the boat.
I backed into the corner. The bear swatted at me, roared, and tried again. Then it pulled up its paw and drew away from the hatch, and for a moment everything was quiet. But the silence exploded again into fury and noise as the bear hurled itself against the log that covered the hatch.
It was a huge old tree. In the forest, it must have stood more than a hundred feet tall. Where it rested on the boat it was six feet across. But the bear moved it easily, though only an inch or two. It moved it again—another inch—throwing its whole weight against the wood.
No other sounds came from Thursday. I couldn’t tell if he had flown away or if he was perched somewhere nearby, silent and waiting. It was a strange image I had—that black bird atop a white log, watching as the bear tried to kill me.
Until the sun went down, until darkness came, the bear kept bashing at the log. When it stopped, I couldn’t see a thing. I couldn’t tell if it had shifted the log, if it had widened the hole enough to get through, or even if it had given up and gone away. There was no sound but the wind, and the waves on the beach.
I lay on the bottom of the boat with no idea where the bear would attack next. Every time I dared to think it might have gone away, I heard the clinking of stones or the rumble of a log. I knew the bear was moving then. But where was it going? That was the worst thing of all, not knowing where it would next appear. Would he try to get in from above or up from below? I didn’t dare stand underneath the hatch, and I didn’t dare lie too close to the hole. I had just a tiny space to huddle in.
There was a clinking, a rattling of stones, then no sound at all. Without moving a muscle, barely breathing, I waited. I clenched my fists, as though that could somehow help me hear. I was sure the bear had gone.
I crawled back to the side of the boat and pressed my ear against the planks. The surf was so loud that it thrummed in the wood. I heard another noise too, a faint trickle of water that puzzled me at first. But then, with a chill, I realized it was the sound of tiny crabs scuttling for safety under the stones. And suddenly the bear banged against the boat, knocking me backward, shifting the entire wreck. Above me, the enormous log rumbled across the hatch. The bear clawed at the planks on the side of the boat. One of them tore loose.
With a machine-gun sound, old nails popped and broke as the plank peeled away from each rib. A hole four inches high stretched from one end of the boat to the other.
Through the gap I saw the surf, a phosphorescent glow that flared with every breaking wave. There wasn’t enough light for me to see the bear. But its enormous mass loomed in front of me. I saw a tiny glint against its claws as they reached inside again. Another plank sprang loose, with a creak of wood and nails.
I fled up through the hatch, squirming past the log. The green glow of the surf flashed all along the beach.
Over the logs I ran. I stumbled from one to another and fell into the spaces between them. But up I got and ran again, bumbling along like a terrified scarecrow. I could hear the bear tearing at the wreck of the Reepicheep, but I didn’t stop running till I reached the cliffs.
For a few moments I rested, leaning against the rock as I breathed huge breaths. Then I pulled myself up through the darkness, crawling on the ground. When the moon rose at last behind tattered clouds, I got to my feet and ran the rest of the way to the cabin.
Near the end of the trail, I heard Frank shouting. Something banged and clattered. Frank cried again, “Get out!”
I stopped at the edge of the clearing. The cabin window flashed red and yellow from the light of a fire. Inside, Frank was screaming.
The bear had got him; I was sure of that. It had come through the forest and reached the cabin before me.
Run away, I told myself. You can’t fight a bear; you can’t help Frank. It would only mean both of us dying. I don’t even like him, I thought. I wish he was dead. I had a million reasons to run away and leave him. Why they suddenly all meant nothing, I didn’t understand. I grabbed a hefty stick from the little pile against the wall and charged toward the door.
It was closed. I smashed right into it, shattering the latch and bending the door back on its hinges. I fell into the cabin, sprawling across the floor.
Frank was standing on the bed with a torch in his hand. Its flame gouted up toward the ceiling in a curl of black smoke. Thursday was huddled high in the corner, where I’d never seen him before, all twisted around with his talons gripping the very top of the wall. They both stared at me, astonished.
“What do you think you’re doing, you moron?” said Frank.
Breathless from running, my heart still racing with fear, I lay on the cold ashes looking up at him. “Where’s the bear?”
“The bear?” he asked.
“You were shouting,” I said.
“At your raven.” He swung the torch toward the bird.
“Don’t do that!” I told him.
Thursday—with a shriek—cowered back in his corner. Frank poked at him again with the torch. “Stop!” I shouted. But it was too late. Poor Thursday, thrashing his wings, dropped from the wall and escaped through the window.
“That bird tried to kill me,” said Frank.
Nothing made much sense to either of us. I closed the door, wedging it shut, then turned to see Frank looming right in front of me, his torch nearly scorching the ceiling.
“Look at me!” He lowered the torch and turned his head. There were little red scratches on his neck, a small drop of blood. “Look. The raven did that,” he said. “I was asleep. It pounced on me, Chris. It—”
“I met the bear,” I said. “It attacked me. Twice. The first time, it knocked me down in the river.”
Even Frank realized that his scratches seemed ridiculous compared to that. He sat on the bed. “What happened?”
“It came running at me,” I said. “I fell down and it sniffed me. It sniffed me all over, then went away and—”
“Bluff charge,” said Frank. “That’s not unusual for a grizz. They run at you, then stop at the last minute. They try to scare you.”
“It works,” I said. “I went down the river and I thought it was gone, but it came after me. It followed me up the beach, all the way to the Reepicheep.”
As I told Frank what had happened, he let the torch tilt in his hands until it came dangerously close to the old wooden table. I took it from him and built a real fire in the circle of stones, wanting to fill the cabin with light and heat. Kneeling by the ashes, I saw matches scattered across the floor. Their heads were black and burnt.
“Blame your raven for that,” said Frank, catching me looking at the matches. “I couldn’t light the torch with him pecking at me. Lucky for him there’s still one left.”
One left. After the terror of the grizzly bear and my flight through the night, the loss of the matches was almost too much. To me, they looked like little fallen soldiers. They were the most important things in our world, the only defense against cold and hunger. I found the nearly empty cylinder under the table and closed it tightly.
“I feel so sick,” said Frank. “I feel just awful.” He turned toward the bed, and I saw his black glove lying on top of the mattress.
As though he’d forgotten that he wasn’t wearing it, he snatched it up and put it on.
“Let me see your hand,” I said.
“No.”
Frank kept it hidden. In the firelight and shadows, I caught just a glimpse of purple, swollen fingers. Then he stretched out on the bed, his face toward the wall.
“Don’t let the raven come in,” he said. “Please, Chris. Promise you’ll keep it out.”
A glint of light shines from the water. Again, for a moment, I’m sure people have come to save us.
But it’s only the tip of a wave catching the sun, a flash that’s there, then gone.
Suddenly a loneliness fills me up from inside. I’m not sure if it comes from the empty sea or only from my memories. It makes me sad to remember that night, when Thursday flew from the cabin. Driven away by Frank, abandoned by me, he must have felt betrayed.
I should have gone looking for him. But I was too scared of the bear to go out in the forest. I couldn’t forget the touch of its nose, the hot smell of its breath, the sound of its teeth snapping together. I didn’t leave the fire all night.
I remember how I sat there, staring into the flames as I tried to sort out what had happened. I kept wondering why Thursday had left me at the Reepicheep. Just to fly to the cabin to attack Frank? That made no sense, although Frank had the cuts on his neck to prove it. But I thought there was another, better explanation. Maybe the raven had gone for help. What if he was only trying to make Frank get up from the bed, to follow him back to the Reepicheep, and no one would listen to him?
Poor Thursday. What I wouldn’t give right now to hear the whistle of his flight, to see him gliding across the meadow toward me. I love the way his wings flare at their tips as he stops in midair. I want him to stand beside me and speak his funny little words again.
Beside me, Frank is holding out his hand impatiently. He snaps his fingers. “Come on,” he says, as though he’s said it a hundred times already. “Give me the book. I’ll read it aloud.”
I pass him Kaetil the Raven Hunter. His finger slips in beside mine as though he means to keep my place. But he takes only a glance at the page, then shuffles through the book to find the point where he had stopped reading.
Then he wriggles into his chair and begins.
Kaetil sat on a stone in the high meadow and sharpened the barbs his ravens wore. The final battle was coming soon. He could smell it in the air, like the scent of smoke from a fire he could not see.
Frank turns the page and keeps reading. His voice becomes a droning sound as my mind drifts back to the cabin.
•••
That night when Frank was sick, I fell asleep thinking of grizzly bears. But I was woken by my father.
I heard his voice calling to me from very far away, and when I opened my eyes I could still hear a distant echo.
From shimmering coals in the fire circle, gray smoke twisted toward the ceiling. My father appeared inside it, like a shadow without a shape, as though I was seeing him through pebbled glass. He wore clothes as ragged as the scraps of cloth that hung from the skeleton tree.
It was not the same thing at all as the night his ghost had come to the house. To see him looming gray and gauzy in the smoke made me afraid. When he talked, his voice was like Thursday’s, a sound not quite human.
“Christopher.”
The red glow of the coals lit him up in patches as the smoke gusted around him.
“Watch for a man,” he told me.
Frank was asleep on the bed, the dark hump of his body covered by cloth and plastic.
“A man,” said my father. A groan came from his ghost—his spirit—whatever it was. “A man will arrive.” He faded away, then slowly reappeared, holding his hand toward me. “Seven days later, you’ll be saved.”
His body grew thin and transparent, wavering in the whorls of heat.
“Dad!” I got up from the floor, trying to take his hand in mine. But it became a plume of smoke that whirled away and disappeared.
And that was how I woke, standing by the fire with my hands held in the smoke. The window was utterly black; it wasn’t even close to morning. Frank was staring at me from the bed.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“I saw my dad,” I told him. “I saw him in the smoke. He was right here.”
Frank looked suddenly afraid, as though he was the one who had seen the ghost. He shook his head and told me, “You were dreaming. I saw you get up.”
“But it was so real.” I rubbed my arms; they were cold. “He told me to watch for a man. He said a man will arrive, and seven days later we’ll be saved.”
“If a man arrives, we’ll be saved right then,” said Frank. “Why wait seven days?”
I had no answer for that. I wondered if I really had been only dreaming.
“Smoke looks weird sometimes,” said Frank. “It kind of steals your mind.”
Uncle Jack had told me the same thing, and it was clear that Frank didn’t want to talk anymore about ghosts. He just sat there staring, looking pale and small.
But I knew what I’d seen. I didn’t understand it, but I believed that my father had actually come to the cabin in one form or another. It was an idea that scared me as much as it gave me hope.
“I’m cold,” said Frank. He asked me to buil
d a big fire, and soon the cabin was sweltering hot. But he couldn’t stop shivering. His teeth chattered in quick bursts, as loud as a woodpecker’s tapping.
I spread my poncho on top of him, the space blanket too, and all the plastic sheets we had gathered from the beach. But still he shivered, his whole body shaking. I took a stone from the fire circle and tucked it against his body. Frank was hotter than the stone.
I didn’t hear the raven come to the window. I looked up and there he was, his head and shoulders poking through the plastic, the rest of him still outside. He kept turning his head, watching me as I picked up another stone and put it in place. For a long time he peered at Frank, so intently that it scared me.
Somehow, Frank sensed the raven was there. He turned his head toward the window, then raised his hands in fright. They tangled in the plastic blankets, as though his arms had become wings. “No,” he cried. “No!”
Frank made me pile the fire so high and hot that it scorched the salmon hung above it. He kept his jacket on and wrapped himself up in the foam mattress. But still he shivered.
Thursday woke me in the night. I heard his shout and saw his head thrust through the plastic window. He looked down at me, across at Frank, but would not come inside. I didn’t even try to tempt him. Drenched with sweat, I could hardly breathe from the heat. The fire roared and sparks flew everywhere. They had melted holes in the plastic roof. They had made deep craters in the foam mattress.
Frank lay sprawled across the bed, and an awful smell filled the cabin. I thought the fish had gone rotten again. It was that same sort of stink, of maggots and dead flesh. I got up to look.
Frank was asleep, and he looked awful. The firelight on his pale face gave him the same unnaturally rosy glow that I’d seen painted on the face of my dead father. He had taken off the black glove. It lay on his chest like a severed hand, still holding its shape.
Thursday watched me from the window, only his head inside the cabin. I kicked the fire apart to make it smaller, then broke off a few pieces of salmon. They were dry and hard, as red as lipstick. There was nothing wrong with the fish. I gave a chunk to Thursday, who gobbled it down on the windowsill.
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