The Bear
“I have a duty to speak the truth as I see it and share not just my triumphs, not just the things that felt good, but the pain, the intense, often unmitigated pain. It is important to share how I know survival is survival and not just a walk through the rain.”
~ Audre Lord
“What was that?” Janet hissed, shaking Lionel’s shoulder. He grunted quietly, rubbed his stubbled face, and swung his legs off the rumpled fur-covered bed. Janet was sitting up in the dim light from the dying fire, her hand on her growing belly, white-blond hair tumbling over her shoulders. “Did you hear that?” she hissed again.
Lionel heard it that time. It was a low, snuffling sound, very close to the thick wooden door that was recessed into the slope of the mountain. Padding on cold bare feet Lionel crept quietly to the east-facing window of their dug-out cabin. He picked up the CZ Ranger .308 that he kept ready and silently unbarred the wooden shutters, gently setting the iron bar on the floor. He peered out the window into the misty night.
Through the dancing wraiths of fog, Lionel spied a large, darker shadow by the light of the gibbous moon. It was moving silently along by the fenced garden, heading towards the hives. He hurried quickly across the cold floor to the door, unbarred and opened it.
Ignoring Janet’s hissed, “be careful!” he stepped into the opening, levelled his rifle, peering through the scope. Not for the first time, he wished he had invested in a night-vision scope. Cold air and mist drifted through the door, raising goosebumps on his bare torso. He ignored it, located the dark shape, and squeezed the trigger.
Immediately after the deafening crack split the night, a loud resonating roar reverberated as the animal reared up onto its hind legs. Lionel squeezed the trigger again. The roar sounded again, and a huge dark form dashed for the encroaching trees.
Lionel slipped his bare feet into the boots by the door and grabbed his jacket off the hook. “Where’s the flashlight?” he muttered, groping the closet shelf in the dim light. “Here it is.” He dropped it in his pocket and went out. “Bar the door and wait for my knock, keep your gun beside you,” he said and closed it.
Janet sat trembling for a few moments, heart pounding, ears straining in the night silences, then she leapt out of bed and hurried to bar the door. She stood looking out the window with the shutters ajar for several long minutes, her tall slim body vibrating with her terrified breaths and her dreadful imaginings. Night and creeping predators howled in her swirling mind.
There was nothing to see or hear outside now, except the twisting tendrils of mist and drifts of cloud over the moon and the roaring of her heartbeat in her ears. Silhouettes of darker trees against the dark night. Not even the grey owl down the mountain was hooting. The dash of the waterfall off to her left was drowned out by her panting breaths.
Janet found herself praying incoherently. Please God, keep Lionel safe. Please God, bring us back to civilization. Please God, keep my baby safe. Please God oh please God oh please, let the world go back to normal.
How long was it now that she’d seen no one other than her husband Lionel? It felt like eons of loneliness. Somewhere out there everything she’d ever known was ending - at least that was what Lionel had said would happen. For two years he’d fought, tried to wake people up to their peril, made videos, and joined activist groups of medical experts. She’d watched him roused to horror and disgust with the masking and the lockdowns and the utterly irrational inconsistencies.
It had happened so quickly: Lionel had gone from an eminent immunologist with multiple peer-reviewed scientific papers and a world-class specialist consultation clinic to a mountain man now hiding in the highlands of northern British Columbia hunting a bear in the middle of the night. Their beautiful home was gone, her friends at Bible study – where were they now? Her parents – were they even alive? Everything she had ever known and loved was gone and now her daily reality was so – silent, solitary. The world had changed, and she wasn’t ready for it. How was this even possible?
As Janet bent down to pick up the cold iron bar and close the shutters, she realized that tears were running down her cheeks. Ignoring that wet rain, she dropped the bar into its iron braces, shivered, and went back to the warmth of the bed.
Janet had almost dropped back into a restless sleep when Lionel’s knock roused her. “I don’t think I hit him,” he responded to her anxious query. “I didn’t see any blood. I’ll check again when the sun rises. Huge prints, though. He’s a big one.”
He removed the clip from his rifle and put the CZ back on the wall rack. He tossed his jacket onto the rocking chair by the fireplace and crawled back into bed. Janet reached out and drew his cold feet to her warm legs and he was soon asleep. She listened to his comfortable breathing for a long time before she managed to fall asleep again.
The morning sun had burned away the mist by the time Janet got up. Lionel was already outside, chopping wood and feeding the chickens that were housed in the log coop next to the garden. Gulping against the familiar morning nausea, Janet nibbled on a homemade biscuit while she brewed coffee in her beloved French press.
Lionel came in shortly, bringing in wafts of freshly chopped spruce and a slight aroma of sweat. This rough living agreed with him. He bore little resemblance to the distinguished young man she’d married seven years ago. He was bigger now, muscular from the hard work he had to do to maintain their rustic way of life. His thick wavy brown hair was shaggy and he shaved weekly, not daily.
Lionel dropped a kiss on her forehead and briefly ran his hand over her belly. “Good morning,” he said. Janet wondered if he was greeting her or the tiny child curled up inside her. He didn’t talk much anymore. It was almost as if the battle he’d waged out in Calgary had stolen all his words away. He had spilled his words into his YouTube videos, he had poured his words into warning articles and podcasts. Now he had very few words left. So few words for her. She was so lonely sometimes. The green silences of the mountain seemed to soothe him, fulfill him and cleanse him. It was different for her.
She went to the big iron cook stove, put a chunk of wood inside, and stoked up the fire. The coffee was ready, so she poured a cup for Lionel and herself. “Did you see any sign of the bear?” She placed the French press on the table.
Lionel shook his head. “No blood at all. I didn’t even wing it. I did see bear scarring on the aspens a ways down the mountain and a lot of prints around the chicken house and goat shed, though. He looks to have attempted entry. Good thing they’re sturdy. I think I’ll stick around for a few days. I was wanting to get an elk or deer this week to add to our supplies, but I think I’ll wait a bit and see if he comes back around.”
He dug into the eggs she placed in front of him. She sat down across from him, one leg bent under her, and nibbled a piece of toast.
Over the next couple of days, Lionel spent some time getting her to practice with her .270 Browning Winchester and the Mossberg pump-action 12 gauge. He wanted her to learn to shoot so she could protect herself. She preferred the smaller Ruger .22 rifle because it didn’t kick as much.
“Don’t you think our little butterfly can hear the gunshots?” she asked, laying her hand on her stomach when a particularly strong flutter happened somewhere inside her in response to a volley of shots. “I bet it’s scaring her.”
Lionel laughed. “Don’t worry, little butterfly,” he said, laying his hand gently on top of hers, “she - or he - will be shooting guns at two years old.”
That night he curled up against her, his hand caressing the small mountain of her middle. “Do you know how rare babies are going to be soon?” he asked.
She sighed quietly and snuggled against him. “What did George have to say tonight?” She was referring to his bi-weekly ham radio call with his long-time friend George who was still in Calgary. Talking to George twice a week was the only way they kept in contact with what was happening outside.
“Well, like I said, babies are going to be rare soon. He’s had two female patients who miscarried this week. He still won’t admit it’s the jab, though.” Lionel rolled onto his back and stared up into the dark rafters above him, lit only by the flickering fire in the fireplace. “He was really upset about a baby girl that went into anaphylactic shock after nursing from her mom. She’d got the jab that morning. The baby died, but he claims it was just an allergic reaction unrelated to the mRNA injection. He was always skeptical about what Viv and I told him, he always thought we were alarmists.”
Into the long silence after these words, he spoke again. “I’m heading out early in the morning. When you go out, keep your .270 loaded beside you and stay near the cabin. I haven’t seen any sign of the bear since the other night, so you should be fine. Just be careful.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “Good night, Janet.” He brushed his hand over her belly. “Good night, Butterfly.”
The birds were just starting to twitter their morning greetings when Lionel heaved his pack onto his back and headed out the door. Janet sleepily got out of bed and followed him. He bent slightly to drop a quick kiss on her lips. “Good luck,” Janet murmured. He heard the bar drop as he started his trek up the mountain.
Exhilaration filled him. Even as a child and later as a med student he’d loved hiking through the mountains and going for hunting trips with his father and his older brother Michael. Getting out of town, away from the noise and annoyances of everyday life had restored and empowered him to go back, study hard, and reach the pinnacles of academic excellence none of his family had ever dreamed of. He’d completed his medical training in record time and received a grant from the Alberta government to study immunology at the University of Guelph with the renowned Dr. Byram Bridle.
Lionel moved up the mountain eastward. Using the fallen tree bridge he soon crossed the fast-flowing creek above the waterfall that provided power to his home. He paused in his climb to survey the scene before him. The morning sun was just rising beyond the mountain range behind Dark Mountain. Most of the winter snow had melted, except for areas which rarely saw the sun. The air had that translucent quality that only a cool April morning can have. He inhaled the scent of spruce and pine and water from the rain the evening before. He still marvelled at how beautiful this country was. Every time he paused to soak in the beauty, he would think, “This is God’s country! This is the way He meant it to be.”
He unslung the binoculars and scanned above him and further to the east. In the far distance, just beyond a ridge of mountains, a hovering helicopter caught his eye. He tracked it briefly, wondering what it was doing out in this wild country, then he scanned lower. Only a few soaring hawks or eagles. But he had confidence his prey was out there. This trail he was following was made by the elk and there was fresh scat here and there. If he didn’t find them today, it would be tomorrow.
His mind wandered to Janet. Why wasn’t she happy? Why couldn’t she share his enjoyment of the simple life they lived? Why couldn’t she see the marvels he saw? Sure, she had left behind her parents to whom she was very attached, but they had both taken the jab and chosen to believe the government narrative – in spite of her pleading with them not to take it.
Lionel sighed, taking note of a burrow that looked to be occupied. He would set a snare there and see if he could get a few rabbits.
Janet’s parents were involved in pastoral and mission work. That was the reason they’d given for electing to be vaccinated.
“Many of our members are elderly,” Daniel, Janet’s dad had explained. “Some of them live in assisted living facilities. Only vaccinated people are allowed to visit.” He had believed the claims that the jab was ‘safe and effective’ and would protect the elderly and immune-compromised.
Of course, not long after, all assisted living facilities had been closed to all visitors including family members. Almost immediately after, though fit and formerly healthy, Daniel had a heart attack. He was recovering after a double bypass when Lionel and Janet left Calgary for their mountain refuge. George kept Janet and Lionel updated occasionally about Janet’s parents and had also conveyed the good news to them about the coming grandchild.
Lionel’s meditations were interrupted by a flock of blue grouse fluttering up around him to land in the branches of the evergreens. He laughed. “Don’t worry, guys! I don’t have my .22 with me.” Shaking off his somber meditations, he continued his hike up the narrow path, the beady eyes of the immobile birds watching him as he went by.
By early afternoon, he’d reached the upper slopes of the mountain. A scan with his binoculars located the herd on the flat meadow overlooked by a jutting promontory. It looked like at least 20 elk with a magnificent bull and several immature ones and more than 10 cows with their calves. “I just want one of you today,” he grunted and removed his Ranger .308 from the holster on the side of his pack. He scoped the distance and decided he needed to get a shot from the clump of hemlock some 300 metres to his right on the face of the slope. He silently re-holstered his rifle and moved back under the cover of the trees.
It took about two hours of quiet, careful movement through the bush to reach his goal. He lost sight of the herd while working his way southward and downward. When he approached the hemlocks, he noiselessly placed his pack on the ground, took his rifle, and crept through the thinning area in the trees.
The herd was restless. Some of the cows that had been lying down were on their feet. The big bull had his head up, flaring his nostrils. Many of them were milling restlessly and cows were squealing for their calves. Lionel went down on his belly and carefully eased his way to a good vantage point. The bull barked and tossed his head. Lionel raised his upper torso up onto his elbows, took careful aim, and gently squeezed the trigger. His target was a healthy-looking bull that looked to be a couple of years old. He saw one elk rear up. Barking and bugling filled the afternoon air along with the squealing of cows and calves. The herd scattered and headed into the brush across the meadow.
Lionel whistled with satisfaction. His target was down. He went back to his pack, gathered it up, then approached the downed animal. It was a clean shot through the left shoulder. He roped up the legs and dragged it to the two birches he’d already marked out for the purpose. Soon, the hanging bar was rigged up, his game animal gutted and cleaned.
When he was done, the sun was dropping behind the mountains to the west. Lionel decided this was as good a spot as any to spend the night. He lit a fire, ate some of the food he’d packed, wrapped himself up in his waterproof bedroll and fell asleep quickly, lulled by the chirping crickets.
It was drizzling slightly as Lionel headed down the mountain the next morning with his tarp-wrapped game dragging behind him. It was slow going, taking care not to rip the tarp on roots or rough surfaces, but Lionel had done this many times before and, in lieu of the hunting sled he used in his youth, his tarp was the heaviest gauge he’d been able to buy. There was still snow in shaded areas and rain-wet grass that made his task much easier. By mid-afternoon, he was approaching home. He crossed the creek, allowing the tarp-wrapped elk to drag into the icy spring-melt water. He was resuming his approach to home when he heard the screams.
Fear exploded in his head. Lionel dropped the rope and, with frantic fingers, unbuckled the belt of his unwieldy pack and dashed towards the clearing. Breaking through the fringe of tamarack that ringed his clearing to the east, he saw a huge brown shape, reared up on its hind legs. Janet was on the top bar of the wooden fence by the henhouse, desperately trying to climb onto the roof all the while pointing a weapon at the roaring horror that was barely ten feet from her.
A shot rang out. It was the sharp crack of a .22.
“Nooooo, Janet! Nooooo!” His gasping howl tore out of him. Lionel’s stomach contracted; she had not kept the more powerful rifle with her.
As he ran, he was dragging his rifle from its holster on the side of his jouncing pack and he was trying to shrug the straps off all at the same time. He stopped when the pack fell to the ground, his frenzied fingers fumbled at the leather ties on the back of the pack, searching for the loaded mag he’d placed in there that morning. All the while, he was howling at the top of his lungs, trying to attract the monster to him. The roaring continued unabated, along with the screaming and another crack from Janet’s small rifle. He found the mag, snapped it into his .308.
The gigantic, humped animal was on all fours now, blood streaming from one side of its face. The small calibre bullet striking the side of its head had served only to enrage it more. It took only moments for the enormous shaggy monster to reach the frantic woman who was on the edge of the henhouse roof now, trying to use her ineffective weapon as a club to fend off the beast. The small rifle struck it on the skull at the same time as the six-inch claws on the enormous right paw of the upright grizzly made contact with Janet’s vulnerable clothing and flesh.
The .22 bounced off its skull and flew away across the chicken run. With the impact of the gigantic, murderous paw, Janet’s fingers slipped loose off the ridge of the henhouse roof and she crashed to the dirt. She was still trying to get away, twisting and screaming. The bear fell back onto all fours and swiped at her again, just as Lionel raised his rifle and took his first shot.
The powerful round slammed into the hindquarters of the shaggy creature. It reared up and away from Janet’s crumpled form. Another shot struck it in the shoulder. It was on its hind legs now, towering over Lionel and swiping at him when Lionel’s third shot, at point-blank range, hit it in the centre of its wide-open roaring jaws.
Lionel didn’t stop to see the monster fall, he vaulted over the fence into the chicken run where the terrified birds were still huddled, crouched as far away from the fray as they could.
Gasping Lionel fell to his knees beside his wife. She was lying in a growing pool of blood, half on her stomach, arms splayed, her face turned away from him. Her body was shuddering, and a low mewling sound was coming from her. There was a dreadful gash in her right shoulder and down her upper arm with the bone of the humerus visible through the ribbons of her flesh, the slash was so deep.
Waves of dread washed over Lionel as he gently turned her over, intending to gather her up in his arms. When he saw the damage on her lower body, a tortured groan broke from him.
“Janet, Janet, honey, stay with me. Janet, Janet, Janet, it’ll be OK, you’ll be OK.”
He gathered her shaking body in his arms and carried her into the cabin and gently laid her on the bed. Her wide-open eyes were glassy, mewling cries continued to escape her slack mouth.
Lionel groped in the cupboard where he kept his medical supplies, not noticing the smears of blood he left on every surface. This was his wife, his companion in exile. This could not be happening. Oh God, this couldn’t really be happening. She couldn’t die, she was his Janet, he couldn’t do this. He found his hands shaking, sweat and agony blinding his streaming eyes, bloodied medical supplies falling like carmine hail to the stone floor. On his knees now, scrabbling through the fallen equipment, he stopped.
Breathe. Slow down. Breathe. Pray. Get what you need. Now get up.
Lionel located the case of surgical tools and the other materials he needed. His breathing calmed, he reassured softly, “It’ll be OK, Janet, stay with me, you’ll be OK.”
Using the sterile scissors, the trembling in his hands sternly controlled, he cut away her clothes to expose the ragged gashes that started on her left hip, across her abdomen and deep into her right thigh. Her body was already convulsing, trying to save her by rejecting the tiny human curled up in the nest of her womb.
Lionel took out his suture kit. He administered a shot of morphine and flushed the area with a bottle of saline, then began to stitch. Blood-soaked towels were soon heaped around his feet as he struggled to repair internal damage. Images of sepsis and abscesses he squelched and continued to pray. He rigged up a saline drip in a desperate endeavour to replace lost fluids. By now, she was unconscious, her face ghastly pale.
Lionel worked quickly, closing the worst of the gashes first in an attempt to staunch the bleeding. He had to stop at one point and gently wrap the tiny infant her body thrust out.
An eternity later, he finally ceased his work, covered the seeping wounds with gauze compresses, and gave her an injection of antibiotic.
He did his best to clean up the bed, gently easing the blood-soaked bedclothes out from under Janet’s silent body and slipping clean sheets in their place. Lionel bathed as much blood as he could off his wife. Her glorious blond hair was tangled and full of blood and there was nothing he could do about that. He covered her with the warmest blankets and stoked up the fire.
Drawing a chair up beside her, he held the kitten-sized baby girl cradled in one hand. He had wrapped her in the partially finished baby blanket Janet was knitting with the fluffiest yarn. This tiny child did not have a chance once the bear ravaged her mother’s body. She was so tiny, yet so perfectly formed. Her minuscule fingers and toes and her perfectly formed ears brought tears to his weary eyes. There had been so much potential for life here, and it was torn from her. He saw her die, her beating heart stop because her lungs weren’t formed enough to breathe.
“Go to God, little Butterfly,” he murmured, then he bowed his head and prayed for her mother.
Two hours later, when Janet stirred and moaned, he gave her another shot of morphine and one of antibiotics.
Sometime, deep into the black ocean of this night, when the fire had died down to purple embers and Lionel had fallen into an exhausted sleep, Janet woke up.
“Lionel, Lionel,” her whisper was enough to rouse him.
He was immediately kneeling at her side. “Janet,” he murmured back, “honey.”
“She’s gone, isn’t she? Butterfly is gone.” Her voice was almost inaudible. Somehow, in the midst of the horror of pain and anguish, the mother had felt her body thrust her child out. Now, she had roused to grieve, though life was fading from her.
Lionel stroked her pale matted hair. “Do you want to see her?” he whispered gently.
He took a moment to turn on the lamp beside the bed, picked up the tiny bundle he’d placed in the bassinet he’d built with so much anticipation and joy, and carried the child to her.
“Thank you,” she said, cradling the tiny, swaddled body to her breast. She closed her eyes.
Lionel touched her forehead. It was cold, as though her body could not generate enough heat. He got out his medicine kit, prepared to inject her IV with more antibiotics.
“No more,” she murmured, “let me go.”
He put away the kit and sat beside her in his chair. An ember fell in the fireplace.
“Do you remember where we met?” his voice was soft and sad. “You were so beautiful, with your shining crown of hair. Remember all those Bible studies I attended, just to see you?”
Janet’s face relaxed, a bit of a smile on her pallid lips.
“I chased you until you finally agreed to date me. When you agreed to marry me, I was so happy, I couldn’t believe how lucky I was.” His voice caught a little. He was remembering that first rush of love. “I still can’t believe you gave everything up for me. You were so generous, so giving. I didn’t deserve you.”
Janet’s breath was coming more shallowly now. Lionel reached out and gently removed the IV from the hand that was cupping the tiny body of her child.
“Oh, Janet, you didn’t deserve any of this. I’m so sorry, I’m sorry for everything. You deserved so much and I didn’t give it to you.” He didn’t notice the tears running into his beard and a sob tore out of his chest.
Janet’s breast finally stopped moving. Lionel fell to his knees and let the anguish overwhelm him. When he raised his head, he saw the first light of the dawn coming through the window.
By noon, he had built a pyre in a clearing up the face of the mountain. The rain from the previous day had stopped, though the skies were louring and threatening rain later that evening. Lionel laid his wife and tiny daughter to rest on the heap of wood wrapped in the best linen he could find in his stores. He hunkered down next to the pyre, his hands buried in the shallow soil covering the rocks and bones of the Dark Mountain and he wept.
He wept for the lost promise of the life that was gone. He wept when his guilt at having not loved Janet well enough swept over him. He wept for the world that was willingly marching to destruction. He wept for his friend George who was going to die and didn’t believe it yet. He wept and refused to think of Viv because that would be one more betrayal of the woman lying silent on the pyre.
When his tears were finally exhausted, he lit the fire and stood silently as it consumed his companion in exile. By the time the fire died down, a slow cold drizzle had begun. He would be alone now.
