Bear Witness

by Mandy Haggith

  ‘Stay there,’ he said, heading out of the door.

  Callis felt the shudder of his movement down the steps. He emerged into the space in front of the hide, gun on back, shaking the contents of the sacks out into an old tin drum and a wooden trough in the middle of the clearing, then a scattering under a pine tree a few metres from the building. Alert as a marmot, he gathered up the sacks and retreated. The hide swayed again as he clambered back up the ladder, soon reappearing in their stilted retreat.

  They sat on the wooden bench by the front window. Callis willed herself to settle. A few birds chirruped over the faint trickle of a stream. The breeze had dropped and the trees stood still and silent. Callis became aware of her breath slowing. She fought the urge to cross her legs, desperate not to fidget.

  Petr nudged her elbow and pointed into the gloom under the trees at the far side of the clearing. A form swelled out of the shadow and lumbered into clear view. Callis clutched the narrow windowsill and held her breath. A big bear, much bigger than the one they had seen earlier, was heading straight for the old tin drum to investigate the treats Petr had offered.

  Callis dug her fingers into the seat of the bench. The bear stuffed its head in the drum and scoffed up the contents, then swaggered over to the trough, close to the hide, so close they were able to watch the big long tongue slurping at its contents and see its shaggy coat, greying and baggy as a borrowed suit. After emptying the trough, it stood up, front paws on the structure, as if about to preach from a lectern. Callis stifled a laugh, trying not to make a noise or sudden movement that might give them away. The bear turned its head and sniffed before slumping back down and strolling over to lick up what it could find under the pines. It did a thorough job of cleaning up the food, unhurried but watchful, before merging back into the shade of the forest.

  Darkness was settling out of the woods. Soon, peering out, it was impossible to distinguish animal from shadow. Callis rubbed her eyes, her cheeks sore from smiling. Petr lit a candle then lounged on one of the beds.

  ‘He was lovely!’ breathed Callis.

  ‘That was Old Grey,’ Petr said. ‘He was the top bear until last year.’

  ‘And what’s the food you put out?’

  ‘Chocolate,’ he grinned. ‘Bears love chocolate more than anything.’

  Callis rummaged in her pack and produced one of the bars of Divine that she had brought for some unpredictable moment of need. He rubbed his hands. ‘Real chocolate!’ He closed his eyes, leaned towards her and opened his mouth. He groaned ecstatically when she placed a chunk on his tongue. He chewed and swallowed. ‘More!’ He made the stupid face again, mouth wide, eyes screwed tight. Callis had an urge to touch his tongue with her finger, or even her own tongue, just to trick him, but resisted and gave him more chocolate instead, laughing. He savoured it with exaggerated glee, then opened his eyes and leaned towards her, planting a swift kiss, lightly, on her lips. ‘Thank you. For that, you deserve some cognac. You like cognac?’

  ‘I’m ambibivorous.’

  ‘What’s that?’ He looked concerned.

  ‘It means I drink anything. Like ambidextrous.’ He shook his head. ‘It means you can use both hands, like for writing, not right-handed or left-handed.’

  He nodded. ‘Ambi…’

  ‘…bivorous. Yes, I’d like some cognac.’

  He beamed at that. ‘Good. Take some.’ He handed her a bottle out of his bag and a chipped teacup from the cupboard. ‘Take as much as you want.’

  She poured a generous measure and then some. He was giving her his fatherly smile. She passed back the bottle and said ‘Slainte mhath.’

  ‘Slann ze jar?’ he said.

  ‘Slainte mhath. It’s how we say “cheers” in Scotland. Slainte.’

  ‘Slanj’ he repeated.

  ‘Meaning health. Mhath.’

  ‘Va,’ he echoed.

  ‘Good. It’s Gaelic, our old language.’

  ‘Slainte mhath.’ He clinked the bottle against her cup, then sat back, stretching his legs out on the bed. ‘You drink well.’

  ‘Yes, I learned to take a drink from my father. Maybe I take a few too many.’

  ‘And not only for pleasure maybe?’

  ‘You’re getting to know me.’

  ‘I hope so. I’d like that. Taking a drink is OK.’

  ‘But only for pleasure?’

  ‘Especially for pleasure.’

  They supped in silence for a while, then talked about the three bears they’d seen. Callis emptied her cup and asked for a refill. ‘Will Big Grey still be out there?’

  He nodded non-committally. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Is it safe to walk?’

  ‘It’s safer in here. Do you want to walk?’

  She shrugged. It dawned on her that he might not intend going back to the cabin. ‘Can we sleep here?’

  ‘Of course.’ He gestured to the bed he was sitting on and the other with its blanket roll neatly in the corner.

  ‘And will there be bears here in the morning?’

  He gave that nod. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Toilet?’ She asked. He pointed to the bucket under the bed. It would be an intimate night.

  She crossed to where he sat, face half lit by the candle, reflected in the window, and watched herself sit down beside him on the bed. He put an arm out to welcome her, and stroked her as if she were a little rabbit or a mouse, his fingers gentle on her hair, her neck, rhythmic, soothing, calming.

  ‘I could drive you crazy,’ he said eventually. ‘Be wild and free, but take care of yourself.’ He carried on stroking her hair, his paws ambling from crown to nape in a hypnotic motion.

  Callis let her hand creep on to his thigh, where it lay, tongue-tied. His touch murmured its thunder on her neck and she said nothing in reply. It dawned on her that he would not move upon her, would not force a pace, and she did not know how to carry on. It was as if he lay floating out on some vast body of water, and she was stranded on the shore with no clue how to reach out to him, how to take the plunge. She had only ever been to bed with men who knew what they were aiming for and she had been content to get there with them. Her sex life, such as it was, had been led, she realised, entirely by male appetites. She had received phone calls, letters, invitations to dates. She had said yes, and yes, and sometimes no, but she had never asked or offered, never led. She had responded, been towed along, but had never driven and never sought. Now she felt she might give it all, but here she was, not being asked for anything, with a man who had stolen the passive role.

  She wondered if she should ask his permission but knew already what the answer would be. She forced herself to take a deep breath and before she could let go of the courage it mustered, she reached her hand up to his cheek and drew his mouth to hers. Her tongue tasted brandy, chocolate and the darkness of him.

  ‘You’re beautiful,’ he said, for the second time that day. He cupped her face in his hand, his eyes soft, still, unflustered.

  ‘What do you want to do?’ she whispered.

  ‘Anything. Anything you want.’

  She pulled away. He was like a dog endlessly returning a stick. ‘But what do you want?’ Her voice was a croak.

  ‘I want everything,’ he shrugged. ‘But I am more curious about you, about where you might want to take me, what your taste might be.’ He paused and smiled. ‘Are you here because you think that’s what I want?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Good.’ he said. ‘Promise me you won’t do anything because you think I want it.’

  ‘OK. The problem is I’m not sure I’m… My own appetite, I’m not sure I know what it is. I’m not used to thinking like this.’ She got up and stood by the window, peering out into blackness.

  ‘It’s not about thinking.’

  ‘I think about everything.’

  ‘Sometimes you need not to think, just to feel, just to be, to let yourself be.’

  She looked at his reflection in the window. He was gazing back at her. ‘A mass
euse once told me I’m too cerebral.’

  ‘Cerebral?’

  ‘Use my brain too much, analyse everything.’

  He nodded.

  ‘I don’t suppose bears analyse so much.’

  He shook his head.

  She stood staring out into nothing for a long time, and when she turned back he had stretched out, eyes closed, a model of relaxation. She watched his long, slow breaths, then tiptoed to the other bed, unrolled the blanket and lay in the flickering candlelight. Her pulse thumped in her head and her mind grated itself on questions: Could she join him now? Was that what she wanted? Was it freedom she really needed, or love? Which was she most frightened of?

  Part Two

  I woke to Petr’s eyes, two pools of serene green. ‘Listen!’ he whispered: a scraping, scratching noise came from below the hide, which was rocking a little.

  He glided upright and beckoned to me to approach the window. The scratching sound stopped, then re-doubled. The hide juddered.

  I hauled myself awake and, still wrapped in the blanket, joined him, peering out of the front window. Down below, a huge male bear was rubbing himself against the post holding up the right side of the hut, back scratching in an ecstasy of friction. Petr grinned and stretched in imitation of the animal.

  The bear dropped to four paws and sauntered out into the clearing, lifting his head to scent, then pausing to chomp some dandelion flowers. He checked out each of the places where Petr had left treats the night before, licking hopefully under the pine tree, sticking his head into the drum, rocking the trough, like a teenager ransacking larder shelves.

  ‘No chocolate for breakfast,’ said Petr.

  The bear took his time, making do with something to snack on from a fallen branch, a beetle or a slug perhaps, and another mouthful of a fern. Turning a stone, he dug determinedly for a while, munching.

  ‘What’s he got?’ I asked.

  ‘Roots.’ Petr shrugged. ‘Worms maybe. Grubs.’

  The bear looked round at them, muddy snouted, rubbed its face in a grassy patch, huffed and lumbered off into the trees, his dark pelt merging with the shadows.

  ‘He’s huge.’

  Petr nodded, rolling his bedding into a neat bundle. ‘That’s Big Black. He’s the top male. You’re lucky to see him. He doesn’t visit here often.’

  ‘How big is he?’

  ‘300 kilos or so.’

  ‘That’s massive.’

  ‘Yes, exceptional, even for here.’

  I unwound myself from the blanket and rolled it up. I felt calm and well rested. Brand new, as Mum would have said, a new woman. ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Eighteen years old, maybe twenty. The old grey we saw last night, he was top male for years, but Big Black is dominant now.’ Sitting on the bed, he reached for his boots.

  ‘Do they fight?’ I asked, following suit.

  ‘Maybe. Not much. They know who’s biggest, strongest. Last spring I saw Big Black chase Old Grey off a deer carcass. It was a wolf kill, and Grey had pushed them off but Big Black fought him for the meat. Old Grey conceded. Knocked off the pedestal. There’s nothing to gain for him continuing to fight and lose, so he stays out of Big Black’s way. The younger males, too.’

  ‘And what about the females? How do they behave with him?’

  ‘Oh, he’s dangerous. He’ll kill their cubs if he can. They’ll steer well clear unless they’re in season.’

  ‘And then?’

  He looked at me as if to indicate it was obvious.

  ‘Well?’ I said.

  ‘He bites her, scratches her, generally throws his weight around acting like a thug, and she growls and bites back a bit until he overpowers her and then afterwards she gets the hell out of there and won’t speak to him. If she is unlucky enough to bump into him again over the next couple of years he’ll try to eat her babies. He’s a bastard.’

  ‘Typical man.’ I regretted it as soon as it was out of my mouth.

  He looked put out. ‘Not all men want to be fathers, you know. Some of us are motivated purely by aesthetics.’ He frowned at me. ‘We can learn a lot of things from bears, but romance is not one of them.’

  This was a different person speaking from last night. I saw I had annoyed him. He seemed to be waiting for a reply, but I didn’t know what to say. There was, somehow, more information here than I had expected. It needed thinking about, chewing over. We packed our bags in silence. I found myself regretting what had not happened the night before. I wondered what might have been possible if I had not been afraid.

  Without debate we were leaving the hide. I watched as Petr made last-minute checks, considered the gun and decided to leave it, then led the way out of the hide. At the top of the steps, he scoured the woods, then descended, agile as a squirrel. I clambered after him and dogged him back to the main path where we could walk side by side.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ he asked.

  I nodded.

  We struck a fast pace back to the cabin, where Petr made omelettes and I laid the table. Over the food, we conversed in the sane tones of colleague scientists, as if there had been no talk of being bears. Petr considered what else I needed to see to equip me for the site selection back in Norway. I said little, just prompting with questions from time to time. Petr decided it was important for me to see a winter denning area.

  ‘I think the den sites are perhaps the most important constraint, particularly for breeding success,’ he said.

  ‘Surely food supply is more crucial.’

  ‘You’ve seen the forest, you’ve watched them browsing, fishing in the river, digging, all that feeding behaviour. I’ve told you about their hunting and scavenging skills. If there is food there, they will find it. They are very versatile. In Scotland you have not much good forest but many deer. That’s fine. The bears will adapt.’ ‘It’s Norway I’m looking at, not Scotland.’

  ‘Not yet, maybe, but you must look at Scotland. It’s your home country.’

  My dream sparked. If Petr Scazia thought bears in Scotland was possible, that made it something more than a crazy whim.

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Why not?’ His eyes gleamed.

  We were back on shared territory.

  ‘It would be wonderful to bring them back, after a thousand years, but it’s not exactly likely.’

  ‘You are independent now, no? No more Queen?’

  ‘Well, we still have her, in fact. She’s ancient now. But yes, we aren’t ruled by a government in England any more.’

  ‘Bears are the symbol of rebirth. They seem to die in the winter cold, then every spring they cause a miracle.’

  ‘I’ve heard this idea before. Are you saying we should use bears as a symbol of rebirth of the Scottish nation?’ He stirred his coffee and said nothing. I felt the idea taking root.

  ‘Symbolism is everything,’ he said. ‘Conservation of big mammals is all about finding channels for fear – we instinctively fear carnivores. We have to convert that, transform it, into love. Fear and love are quite close, I think.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’

  ‘Yes. Religion is based on this idea. Conservationists can learn a lot from priests – mixing fear with reverence. In the old days, right back to the Neanderthals, and everywhere on earth where there were bears, there were cults who worshipped them. The ancient Greeks kept it up. You must know all about that with a name like Callis!’

  ‘Yeah, some.’ I somehow wasn’t at all surprised that he knew the story of Callisto, who was turned into a bear, and then into the Great Bear constellation.

  ‘Anyway, worshipping them, revering them, was definitely useful for the bears. I think we need to get as close to that as we can again. It’s all about symbols, about awe.’

  ‘That’s what has been lost in Norway.’

  ‘Not just in Norway, everywhere. You will need to get it back to some degree if you want reintroduction to succeed.’ He tossed back his coffee. ‘Lecture over.’ He grinned. ‘On a more prac
tical level you need to identify somewhere with good winter accommodation, so we’d better go and have a look at what we have here to give you some ideas. It’ll be quite a hike. Are you up for it?’

  ‘Of course.’

  We packed food, waterproofs and survival kit for an expedition into the wilds then set off. As we walked Petr appeared to shrug off the scientist role and return to the creature of yesterday, loping up the same path as on our first walk out, smiling in the sunshine. It was the shallower slope of the main river valley and we made good progress. I could already feel myself starting to benefit from all the exercise and time in the forest. My senses were quicker, my muscles responded to being used with a glow of well-being, I was more alive. We walked in companionable silence, with only the odd gesticulation at a striking butterfly or a pause to appreciate a birdsong.

  As we walked deep into bear habitat, I stuffed impressions into my brain like a hamster filling up its cheeks: bright white strawberry flowers catching the sun, the pungent crush of wild garlic, a spatter of water from a stream tumbling down the steep slope to the river valley, the cool shade of fir trees, a gold and red flash of a butterfly, a muddy wallow made by wild boar, the cronk of a raven flying over, a fur-filled fox scat.

  After a few hours the track ended abruptly at the confluence of two even-sized streams, both cascading down from much steeper ground. We took a small path beside the northerly flow. It soon petered out. Clouds billowed down from the mountains. There was a rumble of thunder. We continued alongside the stream as best we could, where it splashed down from a precipitous crag. I made a scrambling struggle of the ascent, hanging on to trees, checking every foothold, puffing with exertion and lashing sweat. I thought of the bear we had seen two days ago, bounding like a puppy up the riverbank, just as steep as this. At the top, the stream levelled a bit and we pushed through a wet tangle of swampy forest to the foot of another crag. Petr stopped and pointed up the rockface.