She lived then in rural Quebec amidst dense-wooded hills in a village so small it did not even have a shop. Many years before her arrival there had been a corner store whose name the oldest villagers cradled in memory like fragile glass. The bears, on the other hand, were a constant. They were resident when the first settlers came to tear open the earth and fell the trees to build their homes, setting log on log. And they would be there far into the future, when every man and woman in the place was long fled or dead. They had vigor and formidable strength and mystery. For the most part they kept to themselves, a normal enough fact that delighted her.
Only sometimes, when she walked her hour and a half along the village road and onward, past one lake and then another, people would stop their cars and offer warnings. “Bear spotted up in Ralph Splayne’s yard.” Or “Yearlings in Marston’s field.” She would retreat then, unsettled and darkened of mood. When she went out again on the days following, she would take a bell to ring, as lepers used to do to warn of their approach. I am coming, bears. Or she would hum loudly as she walked, most often a Bach choral like “Sheep may safely graze.”
The summer they invaded the village was scorching. The berries they usually found in wild abundance failed to materialize. At first the stories struck her as apocryphal. Bears were reportedly ripping open screened porches to pillage bags of dog kibble. Or they were discovered head down in freezers, piercing tubs of ice cream with their claws. In her village, they gravitated to the apple trees. It was not uncommon to drive through and see two bears hanging upside down from the branches gorging themselves. She was thankful she had no fruit trees on her property. Nonetheless, she had only to look out her kitchen window at night to see their huge shadows sleeking down the driveway. They raided her garden but apparently found little of interest there. It seemed to her the night air itself took on fur and the fruity scent of their breath.
The only way she could walk with impunity was to drive into the city. When she returned, they were there still, clinging to the apple tree boughs, circling the house and once, settled high in the spruce tree alongside her front deck. She felt under surveillance. She felt overrun and on edge. When she was offered a chance to holiday on Grand Manan Island in the Bay of Fundy, she seized it. There were no bears on Grand Manan. She confirmed this in advance.
In the weeks she was away, the rains came. The bears went back to their habitual retreats, their mystery restored. They were present, but unseen. For this dispensation she was grateful beyond all measure.
The next summer the rains were infrequent yet sufficient she hoped, to dampen down the northern fires and ensure an ample yield of berries for the bears. She had so far that season not seen a single one. Then one mid-morning, close to home, she met a massive male lumbering across the road. He was mere feet away. She stepped back quietly, prompted by respect and chill fear. She forgot how to breathe. He swung his great head round to look at her, then turned slowly and descended into the creek bed.
She was uncertain, always, what that swing of his head signified. As gesture, it seemed to convey judgment: that she was negligible perhaps and unworthy of his notice. Or was it simply brusque acknowledgement of a fellow ambler in a threatened world?
You have been weighed in the balance. Yes, and found wanting. She knew that. She had only to look around her to see the proof. It took a full minute before her legs ceased to feel like water and carried her home.
Photo by Andy Holmes on Unsplash
