The Bear

by Andrew Krivak

AND YET NO MATTER HOW LONG WINTER LASTED, spring followed, its arrival soft and somehow surprising, like the notes of birdsong upon waking, or the tap of water slipping in a droplet from a branch to the ground.

Well, like how even after all these years, years in which I’ve had you to think about every minute of every day, I still think of her. I still miss her and wish she were here. The girl lay back down on the pillow. Will I miss you one day? she asked. One day, the man said.

The man wondered what was in her thoughts, and said, Your mother and I used to climb up here together every summer, but we were already grown by then. Do you know what that means? The girl looked from the top of the mountain back at her father, and said, That I’m stronger than you. Yes, the man said, and laughed. And I have a feeling you always will be.

Her hand still floated over the top of the stone. How did you move this by yourself? she asked. I don’t know, he said. I only remember it was an autumn day when I started, and snowing when I finished and walked back down the mountain with you.

Then he walked back to the house and carried the body of the woman in her blanket down to the beach, placed her at the top of the heap, and set fire to it as the stars were beginning to emerge in the sky. He remained awake all night, watching the funeral pyre burn,

What did she look like? the girl asked. The man thought for a moment. You’ll see her the next time you look at the surface of the lake, he said.

That’s what your mother would have done, said the man. Sat down with those geese and said, Now look here. What are we going to do?

I’ll miss you, he whispered. She understood now and held his hand tighter. I’ll miss you, too, she said. I’ll talk to you. Will you be there to listen if I need you? Yes, he said. SHE FELL ASLEEP AGAIN WITH HER HEAD CLOSE to his, listening to the last of those breaths, and when she woke in the morning, the sun rising and bright white on the horizon, he was dead.

Then she sat back on her knees, covered her face in her hands, and fell forward in the sand like some prostrate pilgrim of old, unable or unwilling in her humility to watch as the fire rose higher and higher to claim the man.

Male bears wander, the man had said, and it was best to let them.

The girl looked back at the fire and then to the bear. Why did you wait that long before you woke me? she asked. Because sleep is the only balm I know, said the bear.

The trees are the great and true keepers of the forest, he said, and have been since the beginning. Some animals of old have said it was the trees themselves that taught them to speak, for they never make an unnecessary sound. Each word, like a breath, carries with it some good, some purpose. For this reason, trees are the wisest and most compassionate creatures in the woods. They will do all in their power to take care of everyone and everything beneath them, when they have the power to do it.

Have you not come to know something of your own mother in the stories your father told, the places she walked, the tasks she learned, which she knew her mother knew well?

What he didn’t understand was that you never knew what it was like to miss your mother in the way he missed her. Now you do. Once upon a time, loss was, for many of your own, the only constant they knew. But it is no less difficult or constant now that it is only you. Nor will it be on the day the earth alone misses you, though it will see years of my own cubs born and sent to wander before you cease to rise with the sun.

She gazed in wonder at the lights, at what could be alive there that high in the sky, and she felt a strength of will in her.

From the morning past midday, she walked the mountain, the slope of it and the wind, more than her legs and feet, carrying her down. She spoke to her father as she meandered, slow and hunched, assuring him she had not gone so far that she could not return and that the promise she had made would endure, as she would, no matter how cold or hungry.

Her father told her once that all animals were creatures of habit and so, too, were they. The difference was she could choose to change her habits. Animals changed when they were afraid.

And each night before sleep by the firelight, she would speak to her father, telling him what she had done that day, what she planned to do the next, and that she hoped to be home on the solstice, as she had always been.

She was used to the path, and though the snow remained deep, with each stride she could feel her heart beat faster, as it had when she was younger and knew that winter was giving way to spring.

the girl asked the bear how long he had been wandering through the forest, and how long he yet hoped to wander. It has been some time, said the bear. More summers than I have toes. We’re given that many years plus ten before we don’t wake up from winter. The girl sat and stared into the fire. You don’t know how many you are given, do you? asked the bear. No, said the girl. The bear looked through the fire at the girl and said, as though this would settle the question, The trees will know.

Then she rolled the skin up again, placed it into the grave, and pushed the dirt back into the hole with her hands until all that she had held of the man was covered and gone. Now come the days when I’ll miss you.

Then she began to fill the inside one by one with whatever rocks and small boulders she could lift and carry, until the area within was filled except for a hollow in the middle. Into this she placed the compass and covered it with a flat slab of gneiss, the striations of which reminded her of the waves in the sea.