by Pam Withers
“Ray, are you doing your homework like you promised?” comes my mom’s voice from the clinic. Uh-oh.
“Guys, my mom’s on the prowl. Gotta go for now. Talk to you next week?”
“Sure, and bring this drone chick on-screen then, Rayster!” Arlo teases.
Quickly I sign off, then shuffle outside and lie down in the hammock beside my laptop and schoolbooks, even though a greying sky threatens to let loose a rainstorm.
“Yes, Mom, doing my homework.”
I actually work on an assignment for a few minutes. But it starts to sprinkle, and here in this sling, my mind soon flits to Hank. I’m wishing he would appear, push his nose into me, and spring into my lap. Where is he? Is he still alive? Is someone feeding him? Poachers don’t kill the younger ones. Who really took him and why?
I move under cover of the porch and my fingers tap out questions for the all-knowing Google. “Where’s Hank?” That takes me to an eatery three thousand miles away. “Why steal a bear?” A news report details a toystore robbery of giant teddy bears. Other questions produce info on gummy bears, the Chicago Bears, bears featured in an online game, and economic predictions based on bear versus bull markets. Markets! That’s it!
“Who sells real bears?” I type on the keyboard. And then, recalling the right word, “Why poach a bear?”
My deck chair vibrates as I sit up straight and stare at the screen. “No way!”
“No way what?” It’s Min-jun’s voice. He’s coming out our back door with a tray and an empty mug. “Just delivered my dad’s special healing tea to your grandfather,” he says, and pauses as awkwardness hangs between us. “I owe you an apology, dude. Dorothy told me I walked in my sleep the other night and you rescued me. I thought I might have, but wasn’t sure. I don’t always remember. She said you took a lot of crap for not telling anyone.”
“Something like that,” I say hesitantly.
He sets the tray down and pulls a nearby stool up beside me to peek at my screen. “Whatcha got there, neighbour?”
I look at him curiously. So he barely remembers the sleepwalking, and no longer recalls the epileptic seizure at all. Not unusual, I guess, based on what I’ve read.
“Stare much?” he teases as I continue to study his face.
“Sorry. I just asked Doctor Google why anyone would want a young bear from the wild, and look what it told me.”
Min-jun groans. “You’re not still obsessing about that cub being stolen, Ray. Forget the little guy. You hardly knew it.” But he peers at my screen and reads aloud. “A bear’s gallbladder is worth three thousand bucks in parts of Asia? They’re sold in velvetlined boxes? You can buy bear skulls, hide, and claws online? That’s gross, bro.”
“A bowl of bear-claw soup costs a thousand dollars,” I read aloud with bitterness. “Bear parts are a two-billion-dollar industry worldwide. And bear bile is worth more per ounce than heroin. It’s found in the gallbladder.”
“What’s bear bile? Where is a gallbladder?” Min-jun asks, wrinkling his nose.
I jab a finger at my lower chest. “Bile is a fluid made by the liver and then stored in the gallbladder. It helps break down food.” I’m quoting Mom, but, being a nice guy, I spare him the bit about bile being part of vomit.
“What, you’re a vet already?”
“Affirmative,” I kid back, then read on from the internet. “Some people believe bear gallbladders cure almost anything. They’re found in shops that sell traditional medicine. Lots of countries are clamping down and trying to educate the public and prevent poached bear parts being sold on the black market.” Then I add what my mom told me. “There are herbs and synthetic biles that do the same thing people believe bear bile does.”
“And what’s this got to do with anything?” he asks impatiently. He leans back on his stool and eyes the tray he’s supposed to deliver back home, through what is now a downpour.
“Granddad says there are poachers around here. And we saw the Logans’ Plott hounds, a breed used to hunt down bears. I’ve been asking around, and evidently the Logans don’t farm anything up on their property anymore. I mean, like cows or wheat or stuff. So what are they living on?”
“Um, welfare, like lots of other people? You’ve added two and two together and gotten five,” Min-jun says.
“If they’ve got Hank, they’re in deep trouble with me,” I say, “especially if they’re treating animals badly for profit. I’ll follow them, spy on them, trespass up there on their property, if that’s what it takes.” And they’d better not have killed him!
“Dude, you’re seriously worked up. You’re scaring me.”
I wrinkle my face and do an imitation of Granddad’s peevish voice: “A bear stripped o’ his skin, paws, and gallbladder and left on the mountainsides for the vultures looks eerily like a man.”
“Oh my god,” Min-jun says, “you are so him when you do that. Promise me you won’t really be him when you get old? ’Cause we’ll probably still be neighbours, me coming over to bring you tea and pull your blanket up.”
I laugh. “Your dad is good to my granddad. I hear he’s taking him out to dinner tonight. Korean food, of course.” I scroll down the screen, read some more, and feel all humour evaporate. “Min-jun, have you heard of bear-bile farms?”
“No.”
“Where they milk caged bears.”
“Milk ’em?” His expression is disbelieving.
“Says here instead of killing young bears and cutting out their gallbladders, they cage them, push a tube into their gut, and collect the gallbladder drippings, which they turn into pills and stuff.”
“Sold in velvet boxes.” His voice has gone flat.
“It’s extremely painful for the bears,” I read. “They mostly die of infections from the puncture hole, or from liver cancer. Grizzlies live fifteen to twenty-five years in the wild, but only a third of that if they’re caged for bile collection.”
He’s staring at Hank’s aged scat on the lawn, now disintegrating in the rain. “Dude, stop making yourself crazy. Maybe Hank just crossed the road and found a stepmom and is living happily ever after. Anyway, we saw inside the Logans’ barn. There weren’t any bears in there, let alone ones being milked. Just dogs.”
“And dog cages that could fit young bears.”
Min-jun shakes his head. “Not taking you up there again, bro. And those guys aren’t going to listen to a dental hygiene speech next time. My advice?” He points to my discarded schoolbooks. “Get back to your homework. You can do mine when you’re done with yours.”
He scoops up his tray, and hurries home through the rain. All seven paces between our properties.
“Ray!” It’s Dad’s voice.
“Ray!” Mom’s echoes from the clinic.
I lay my laptop and books aside and dash in, hoping for an interesting case, but halt when I see a cream-coloured miniature poodle with a pink collar standing unsteadily on the operating table, whimpering pitifully, with blood-stained white gauze sticking to her belly. I raise my eyes to meet the pale face of the client: Dorothy.
“She got bitten in a fight with another dog,” she says in a small voice, eyeing all three of us in turn. “She came in bleeding and staggering. We tried to treat her ourselves but it looks bad. Can you do something? Will she be okay?”
“Ray, do you want to comment before we offer our diagnosis and take action?” my mother asks. Dorothy looks from Mom to me.
I turn to don a lab coat, scrub my hands at the sink, and pull on rubber gloves. Then I place my hands gently on Pilot’s small pink belly: “It’s a puncture wound. Maybe septic already.”
“Correct, but that doesn’t cover everything. Notice how she’s shaking her head?” Mom says.
“And scratching her ears,” Dad prompts, giving me an encouraging look.
I inspect the poodle’s ears. “So, besides the BDLD wound, she has spear grass in her ear and it has caused an infection.”
I’ve always loved the BDLD acronym, which stands for
big dog/little dog. And spear grass is simply a long blade of grass that has pierced the tender inside of the ear. Dorothy is stroking her dog’s neck with a shaking hand. A tear spills from her brimming chestnut eyes. I want to catch it with a finger and draw her into my arms.
Instead, I say, “She needs an otoscope exam right away. We’ll remove the spear grass and treat her ear infection with antibiotic ointment. She needs antibiotics for the infected wound, too. Dorothy, do you want to come back in an hour, or stay?”
“I’ll stay,” she says, lifting her chin.
“Are you okay with Ray assisting with the treatment under our supervision?” Dad asks. “He has done these procedures before as part of his training.”
“Of course!” Dorothy says. She gives me a look through her wet eyelashes that prompts me to grow a foot taller.
Mom takes the particulars with a clipboard while Dad administers a sedative. I shave around the poodle’s belly wound, disinfect the area with antibacterial soap, place a drain, and suture the puncture, all under the watchful eyes of my parents, who occasionally hold out instruments like they’re surgical nurses.
“Take a break, son,” Mom says when it’s finished. “I’ll deal with the spear grass.”
“Yes, excellent job. You’ve earned a rest,” Dad says in his quiet voice, standing beside Mom like they’re a tight, happy team. For this microsecond.
“She should come to in around thirty minutes, but she’ll be sleepy for a while after that,” I inform Dorothy as I remove my lab coat and hang it on a hook. I strip off my gloves, wash my hands, and don my beret and scarf, then shuffle outside after her. Together on the front porch, we watch the rain beat down.
“Thanks,” she says in a low voice, her fingertips almost brushing mine. “You’re okay, you know. You should wear that.”
“Wear what? Why is everyone so hung up on what I wear?”
She giggles and I look at her quizzically. “You should ‘wear’ the fact that you’re okay. Look proud and confident at school or on camping trips, like you do in your clinic and like you did when you were helping Min-jun after he sleepwalked. Wear who you really are, instead of walking around hunched like someone’s going to hit you, or like you don’t deserve a friend.”
“I’m that bad, huh? Do I deserve you as a friend?” Bravely, I take her hand.
Instead of pulling it out of my grip, she interlaces her fingers in mine, tosses her hair, and gives me a smile that makes me want to sing at Carnegie Hall.
“How’s the drone?” she asks.
“Butterfly is doing all right. I just need to figure out why her batteries aren’t lasting longer. I’m not sure what else to do at this point. I’ve tried all kinds of batteries.”
“What if I told you I build my own batteries?”
“Seriously? That’s incredible. How’d you —?”
“It’s a secret. Proprietary.” She nudges my shoulder and giggles. “And you’re wanting better batteries for what reason? To duel with me again? To film Bella Coola’s scenery, because you’re starting to like this place?”
“To duel, but not necessarily with you,” I joke.
“I see,” she says, eyes going dark for a split second. She looks toward the road and suddenly extracts her hand from mine.
Stopped on his bike in front of the house is Cole Thompson.
“New York, New York,” Cole says in a raw tone. “How is Disarray Ray? Shouldn’t you be studying your grandfather’s soggy survival manual to prepare for your next outdoor adventure?”
So he searched my tent that night while I was down-slope dealing with Min-jun.
“Nope, I’m good, thanks to your excellent tutoring,” I reply. “What do you say we get permission to fly drones on the next camping trip? Dorothy and I could show people how to fly them, and talk about how they can save lives in the wilderness.”
“Ray McLellan can pronounce the word wilderness,” Cole muses. “But we have other ways of saving lives here, new boy. And remote-control toys don’t fall under woodsmanship.” He glances as Dorothy. “Or woods-womanship,” he allows, tipping his baseball cap with a nod and grimace. “See you around.” And he speeds down the road with more calf-muscle action on display than necessary, rear tire spattering mud up his backside.
“If Mussett would give us permission, that would be cool,” says my drone chick. “But it’ll never happen.”
“Then let’s do our own drone flights,” I suggest. “Know a good place without trees or people around?”
She looks thoughtful for a moment. “Yeah, there’s a new clear-cut along a bay not far from here by boat.”
“Granddad has a canoe. Can you paddle?” I’ve paddled his old aluminum canoe before, of course: each and every vacation here, with Granddad always hollering at me to pull harder. Or with Dad, on more peaceful outings.
“Of course I can paddle!” she says, rolling her eyes. “It’s maybe forty minutes by canoe.”
“Perfect,” I say, not knowing if I can actually pull on a paddle for an entire forty minutes. “Maybe I can get the Jeep off Granddad to drive to the launch.”
She shrugs. “I’m in. But when are you going to show me your UAV workshop? We have a few minutes before Pilot comes out of it, right?”
“We do.” As we walk through the house to the backyard, I picture the two of us alone together in my workshop, her eyes alighting on my treasures and registering my mastery of the craft. Her excitement extending to a hug, which could turn into a —
“Ray?”
“Yes?”
“Is that your workshop?”
She’s pointing to the right place, but half my workshop’s contents are lying on the ground outside, along with the door’s padlock, which has been sliced through by a buzz saw or some such.
“What?” I scream, and break into a sprint. As I enter the structure, Dorothy on my heels, I see Granddad’s portion of the space untouched. This was a targeted attack. My drone parts are scattered and broken, some of my tools are missing, the overhead light bulb in my workspace is smashed, and shelves are hanging off the wall. Like a gorilla with a tire iron and a migraine headache has been around.
I take a deep breath to control a sharp surge of anger. Then, with a wave of relief, I remember: My three drones are safely in my bedroom, on my bed, still posed for photos to send to Arlo and Koa.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MR. KIM IS the first to appear, holding an umbrella over his head, as Dorothy and I stand on the back patio out of the rain, staring at the workshop.
“You bang in workshop? Sound angry,” he scolds, waving his free arm. He’s dressed in jeans with an ironed crease and a new sweater, clearly making an effort to cheer up Granddad on their night out to his café. The way I’m feeling, I’m surprised I even register that.
“It’s been vandalized,” I cry out. “Did you see anyone? A bike? A truck? A person?” I swing around, looking everywhere.
Dorothy has her hands to her face and is shaking her head. “This doesn’t happen in Bella Coola.”
Mr. Kim looks from me to the workshop. “I see no one. Thought you work more noisy than usual. Minjun!” he shouts.
My neighbour gallops out. “What’s going on?” He looks at the mess, then at Dorothy, his dad, and me.
“Vandalized,” I say. “Did you hear or see anything, Min-jun?”
He shakes his head slowly. “I heard noise, but thought it was you. Don’t remember hearing a vehicle.”
I call out for Mom and Dad, and while Dorothy explains the situation to them, Min-jun, Mr. Kim, and I check the alley and yard, but come up with no fresh vehicle tracks. Unfortunately, any footprints on the soggy ground are now destroyed by our own.
Pretty soon Granddad is tottering around the workshop, checking his own valuables and shaking his head at my room. He voices some of my own questions. “What eejit would come looking to steal in here? Looks to me like they had a mission concerning drones. You been spying on anyone, grandson? Have an enemy already? Or ar
e yer parts worth more than I thought? Seems dangerous to share quarters with you, I’m thinking. Jae-bum and I will contemplate it more over dinner, will we Jae? Meantime, Ray, I suggest you clean up and slap another lock on it quick smart.”
Mom speaks up. “What about calling the police before we touch anything?”
“For a few tools and toy parts?” Granddad bellows. “In Bella Coola, we let our law enforcement stay focused on real crimes. Right, Sean?”
Dad shrugs. “I need to check on the poodle,” he says, ducking back into the clinic.
“I’ll come with you,” Dorothy says, giving me a sympathetic look before trailing after my dad.
I want to pound my fists on Granddad’s disappearing back as he and Mr. Kim head to Mr. Kim’s car. But evidently his monthly night out is more important than a break-in that involves only my belongings.
Who did this? Cole? The Logan brothers? A random thief who prefers drone tools to taxidermy tools? Or have I earned an enemy already?
The next weekend our paddles dip rhythmically into the calm waters of the bay, with me in the stern struggling to keep the canoe straight and Dorothy in the bow, powering us with the confidence of a girl who grew up here. She’s wearing a pink fleece jacket, she’s humming, and her black hair is flying free in the spring breeze.
Eagles pip-pip above us and we glide past the trees on shore, heading for the secluded inlet. Our cooler of picnic goodies is stashed in the canoe’s centre, and our drones are lashed on top of it. My body is tingling with excitement for this drone date.
“Your dad doesn’t mind us canoeing around the inlet?” I ask her.
A chuckle comes from the front. “He thinks I’m at the library studying.”
“Oh.”
“Nice of your granddad to loan you his Jeep and canoe.”
“Anything to make me into a Bella Coolan outdoorsman,” I say. “Or get rid of me for a few hours.”
