Bear Witness

by Mandy Haggith

  The tiny body is perfect – a little boy. I wrap him in a towel and clutch the bundle. I reach for Brown, the floppy velvet bear I made last year and cradle my little dead baby in our hug. Nothing can stop my weeping. Everything is over.

  Through it all, I’m vaguely aware of Païvi at my side, and Tanka, like the presence of the bear, a stalwart comfort speaking from the shadows, sitting vigil through that dark time.

  When a sliver of moon rises in the eastern sky, it’s nearly dawn. I don’t know if the others have slept at all. As the light strengthens, the truth of what I hold in my arms clarifies, and fades, and then becomes clear again. Just as I did the bear, I must bury this child.

  Tanka seems to understand what’s going through my mind. ‘The little one will live in the woods with the bear,’ he says. ‘Shall I dig?’

  I nod, drowning in the river of grief. Païvi makes a cup of tea, and by the time Tanka returns, I’ve managed to get up and put on clean clothes. I’m ready for the ceremony.

  The grave is beside the bear. I place my baby in the hole, and Païvi hands me flowers. I lay them around the body, and then over it, and finally I cover the face with mallow blossoms and sweet peas. Their scent almost chokes me. When nothing remains to be seen of the little towel bundle, I stand up and take the spade from Tanka. I dig into the mound of soil and shake its contents on to the flowers. I try a second spadeful, but Tanka touches me gently on my arm and prises the spade from my trembling hand. He fills the hole with a few deft movements. As he reaches the last shovelful Païvi gives me a little rowan tree seedling, and I get back down on my knees and water it into the grave with my tears.

  Tanka pats the soil firm. Then he and Païvi sing. I don’t know the song but I understand its timeless sorrow. Their two voices, in unison, help me over the threshold of loss. Then they lead me back to the little caravan, and I stumble back into bed, and sleep.

  I wake to a day of heavier, wilder squalls, rain slashing across the windows, the trees tossing their manes in the wind. In between showers, intense, baffling sunshine bathes the woods in unspeakable beauty, the earth laughing and crying at once. I let my own clouds wash through me and abandon myself to their ebb and flow.

  I remember in the myth Callisto has a son called Arcas. He never knows her. At the end, when the god takes pity on them both, he turns them into constellations. Silently, I give my dead baby the name Arcas. I repeat it to myself: Arcas. I will find you in the night sky, my little boy, my son.

  While I’ve been sleeping, Païvi has been investigating Yuri Zeveris. They may have sounded unbothered by his message, but she and Tanka were worried enough to want to get to the bottom of how their secret got out.

  She’s sitting at the caravan table with her phone. ‘I’ve worked out how he knows of your link to us,’ she says. ‘The Rock Ness listing names you as a Taiga Tunes band member. But how he knows about the bears, that can only be the rescue centre in Kirkenes and I can’t figure that out. He must know someone there. I’ve asked Elena and she doesn’t recognise the name. She asks if we have a photo of him.’ She is talking aloud as she browses. ‘There must be a picture on the Institute site somewhere. Here we go, he… oh my God, he looks just like… it can’t be. This is your boss?’

  She flashes the picture round so I can see it. It’s Yuri. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I know him. It’s Anton Rushkov. Anton Alexandreyev Rushkov. He’s a total criminal.’

  Tanka looks at the photo over her shoulder, and shakes his head. ‘I don’t recognise. Who is he?’

  ‘He’s an illegal logging mafia man.’

  ‘How is you know him?’

  ‘I met him in Russia. He was in the middle of a huge forest corruption scandal in the Russian Far East. He was the frontman for a totally fake company that allowed timber to just disappear over the border into China. And when we got on to him he just disappeared, too.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, it’s definitely him. We did a huge “WANTED OUTLAW” poster campaign, I’ll never forget that face.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘It was before I met you. Years back, maybe twelve years? I was an intern at BROC, the Bureau for Regional Oriental Campaigns in Vladivostok, they were deep into illegal logging investigation. I bet Anatoly would love to check this out.’

  ‘Anatoly?’

  ‘He’s a journalist, runs BROC, totally passionate about the forest, great guy. I’ve not been in touch for years. I’ll ask him.’

  She types furiously for a while, then says, ‘If it is him, what’s he doing in a Norway institute pretending to be a scientist? It can’t be the same guy.’ She turns to me. ‘What is he like, your boss?’

  I look across from my bed and sigh. ‘Yuri? He’s Russian. He’s very charming. His English isn’t too perfect but it’s pretty good. He’s ambitious, I’d say. He knows loads of people in the forestry industry, always seems very well connected, lots of friends. He’s on UPP’s board and he enjoys spending their money. And he’s a bastard if you don’t do exactly what he wants.’

  ‘A charming bastard, that’s him.’ Païvi laughs. ‘Does he drink champagne?’

  ‘Yes, and eats caviar.’

  ‘Even in Norway.’ She rubs her fingers together. ‘If it is Rushkov, wow. I know some people in Greenpeace Moscow who would love to get their hands on him.’

  As I sleep again, Tanka drives to Lochinver to do laundry and buy food, and then makes himself useful in the garden and at the stove. Meanwhile Païvi continues to research Yuri Zeveris, working her way through his CV, looking for gaps and anomalies.

  I get up for dinner and Païvi tells us her findings. ‘This guy is a fairy tale. From 2012 back it is all made up. Fiction. I’m sure of it. I bet if we ask the Russian Academy of Science about his doctorate, they’ll deny all knowledge.’

  ‘So ask them,’ says Tanka.

  Three days later the Finns have a ferry to catch. Païvi is reluctant to leave me, but I persuade them I’ll be OK. I drive with them to the ferry then go to Dad’s house to recuperate.

  He’s looking better, though he takes one look at me and shakes his head. ‘What’ve you been doing with yourself?’

  I tell him some of it, but not all, and agree to see a doctor. Rest is prescribed.

  ‘You could have a look through some of your old stuff, and there’s some things of your mother’s I’ve been going through…’ Dad says.

  I spend a morning throwing out old ornaments from my bedroom. I manage to use up a whole day sorting bookshelves, sitting cross-legged on the floor rereading the stories from my childhood, wetting their pages. I drive myself almost crazy avoiding conversations about my job with Dad, who sits behind his newspaper whenever he isn’t hiding in his shed in the garden.

  I’ve been sorting out a load of camping and travelling gear that’s cluttering up the garage, and packing some things I want to take back to the croft. In the pocket of my suitcase I come across the letter from Petr. I take it to my room, close the door, sit down on the bed and read it again, hearing his voice in his words. I can almost feel his hand ruffling my hair.

  What might have happened if the trip to Romania had involved less, as he put it, professional restraint? It must have been hard for him to write such a letter. How different he is from Malcolm.

  He says he doesn’t want to be forgotten. I get out my phone, flip down to Scazia in the contacts list, then pause. Months have passed. My visit to Romania was more than a year ago. Is it too late? What on earth can I say? I fold the letter up again, slip it into the pocket at the back of my sketchbook, and go back to the garage.

  After three days I arrange to meet Stig at the Cask. I think I might have to tell him everything. I’m bursting. But when it comes to it the need to keep the secret of the bears is far too intimidating. I can’t risk anyone else knowing, so I keep quiet.

  Over pints of Big Cat, Stig tells me the latest news: a stalking party caught sight of a bear in the mountains up behind Strathconon. A blurre
d photo is circulating on the Internet. I don’t need to fake interest and hope my feigned surprise doesn’t give me away too much. Fortunately Stig doesn’t expect me to be anything but delighted, and I listen and try not to look knowing as he speculates about its source. Everyone suspects a Glenmathan escape. I catch him looking at me once, as if he has questions he would like to ask.

  Once the second pint has loosened my inhibitions, I do tell him about Malcolm, and the miscarriage. Somehow I even manage to keep from crying, as he tries in his awkward way to express how sorry he is. Then he asks if he can tell Frances.

  ‘Oh, why not,’ I say, ‘she’ll no doubt say she told me so.’

  A few days later, I get Dad to drive me back to the croft, and show him around. A letter from a lawyer has arrived, spelling out Malcolm’s willingness to assign the croft to me, and that helps reassure him a bit about what I’m doing there. I call a solicitor who explains the bureaucracy and puts in place the slow wheels that will eventually make the croft my legal home.

  There is also a card from Frances, a handmade design of a red flower, probably made by Frances herself. Inside she has written, ‘I’m so sorry, Callis, to hear of the loss of your baby. If I can do anything at all to help, when you must be grieving terribly, please get in touch.’

  I spend a lot of time beside the graves. The little rowan seedling has shed the last of its leaves.

  I buy a car for sale in Ullapool, so Malcolm can have his Land Rover back again. I leave it for him to collect at a garage in Inverness, and get the bus back, thankful that I don’t have to see him. What keeps me awake at night is what he might say about Gretel. I hope he will assume that my incompetence is total and that the Finns and I tried, failed and have been put off.

  One bright morning in the middle of October I submit my resignation to the Institute in Norway. I’m not going back there now; I have to stay in Scotland, on the croft. I’ll miss the Norwegian salary, but I’ve got some savings. Then I call Luke Restil and ask if he’ll let me know if he is ever looking for more staff. He invites me for dinner.

  Luke greets me at the front door as I pull up in my new car. I’m introduced to his wife, Sophie, who serves up an elaborate dinner and complains, wittily, about being a post-feminist drudge. I eat the food in a blur, waiting for the conversation to move beyond small talk. Once our chocolate pots are empty, Luke suggests we take our drinks into the lounge, the room we were in during the previous visit with the Finns.

  ‘You’ll be interested to see this, I think,’ Luke says, flicking on the screen in the west wall. ‘I’d like to ask for your confidence, Dr MacArthur.’

  I can’t quite judge if he is joshing me by the use of my title, but play along. ‘You can call me Callis,’ I say. I’m tempted to say Madabout, but restrain myself. I want to grab the map controller from his hand.

  He zooms out to the whole estate view and I can’t resist peering over his shoulder to see. He turns to make way for her. There, just to the northwest of the boundary fence, unambiguously outside the fence, is a little cartoon badger symbol, flashing, to a slow pulse.

  ‘I didn’t know you were tagging badgers.’

  He turns and lifts his eyebrows. ‘I believe one of their traditional names is Fern Bear,’ he murmurs. ‘We might be getting our icons a little bit confused. It’s a frightfully complex system, don’t you agree?’

  ‘Extremely complicated,’ I nod. I whoop inside myself, but remain soundless and, I hope, composed.

  ‘I’d like to be able not to show the badger icons on the main display, since they’re not our core species, do you know how to do that?’

  I bend down, reach for the mouse and bring up the display menu, browse to find the badger configuration settings and uncheck the view checkbox.

  ‘You just got yourself a job,’ he says. ‘We’ve been needing someone who can get to grips with our monitoring information. Is that something you can do?’

  I assure him it is my bread and butter.

  ‘I think we’ll enjoy working together.’ His voice is smooth, but his eyes dart about.

  There is a lot unspoken, but I don’t mind. I have access to the tool that will enable me to keep track of at least one of the bears I know is out there. All winter long I’ll be able to watch the slow pulse of the sleeping animal, flashing orange on the screen, in amongst the hills between Glenmathan and home.

  One day I walk out east and spy around the bouldery scree at the foot of the crag where the icon flashes. I don’t want to get too close and disturb her. It looks like a good denning site.

  The estate manager Steve, a gruff Yorkshire man, tells me at some length about a recent incident of fence damage. He assumes it was caused by ‘right to roam’ activists. He explains that ramblers and ‘right to roam’ campaigners have for years been demanding free entry to the estate, although most visitors willingly drive in through the main gates and stump up an entrance charge. I seem to remember being involved with some other Fe-Phi-Pho activists in the ‘right to roam’ campaign, wanting the right to walk amongst bears and wolves at our own risk.

  The fence damage has been repaired and there are remarkably few questions being asked. ‘Bloody ramblers,’ says Steve. ‘Bloody fence. Bloody nuisance.’

  I’m issued with a contract. It points out that wilful damage to estate property is a sackable offence, if intended to thwart the objectives of the Estate Management Plan. I make a point of reading the Estate Management Plan and ‘facilitating the restoration of the full quotient of Scotland’s native fauna’ is at the top. I content myself that a bit of fence-breaking seems to be not entirely inconsistent with my terms of employment.

  I’ve got back into horse riding since starting work on the estate. Luke and Sophie ride every day and, increasingly, I go out with them. I like the way the other animals let us get much closer on horseback than on foot. I buy myself an Icelandic mare for my Christmas-Solstice-New Year present. The pony is dark and I call her Gretel. She is good company on the croft.

  I suggest to Luke that in the interests of good neighbourliness a gate on the north-west corner of the estate might be an option. There are gates on other corners: heavy, difficult structures with loud notices explaining that entry on to the estate, where wolves and bears roamed free, is entirely at the enterer’s own risk. When I explain to Luke that I could ride to work from home if there was a gate into the estate, he agrees to put it in. I don’t ride every day; it’s a long way and hard going, but sometimes my monitoring work takes me out beyond the fence and it’s good to have the cover story of riding home.

  I’m not quite sure who knows that the little brown bear – for it is the five-year-old that has ‘escaped’ – is out there, apart from Luke and Sophie. So far it seems that the disappearance of the 27th bear is not gaining much attention. As long as she is in her den and the radio signal doesn’t show up on the main Xmap system, there is no reason for anyone to find out, unless there is some kind of census of all the bears. It occurs to me that I could provide the carcass, or at least skeleton, of a similarly aged female bear, should that become useful at some point. I keep it to myself. No one seems to be counting.

  I wonder where Hansel is hiding out. It’s a good, cold winter. I’m pleased: less chance of bears waking up to wander around for food in warm periods.

  Frances is sitting in the window of Yum Cafe when I arrive. The bus to Inverness was a bit late, but the cafe’s just next to the station so I’m not too delayed.

  ‘I’m sorry, have you been waiting ages?’

  She gets up. ‘You’re here now. You look…’ I can see her checking out my clothes. ‘You look…’

  I hug her. ‘Like a crofter?’

  She smiles and sits down, then reaches over to feel my patchwork jacket. ‘A bit wilder than when I last saw you. Short hair suits you. Dykie. Diana’d die.’

  ‘It keeps getting shorter. I’ll get some tea. Want something?’

  ‘No, I’m fine.’ She gestures to her coffee.

  I op
en my bag to get my purse, and get out the present I’ve brought her. It’s one of my drawings, a wildcat hiding in among a thicket of rowan and brambles. It’s wrapped in sheets of the Scottish Wildlife magazine. ‘Sorry about the wrapping, I’m saving paper,’ I say.

  I go to the counter and order tea, while she opens her present. I knew she’d like it. She would have to have changed personality completely not to coo over it.

  ‘Cally, it’s beautiful,’ she says. ‘Have you seen one? In the wild, I mean, where you are now?’

  I shake my head. ‘I saw a big cat jump into the shadow by the road late one night, but I can’t be sure that’s what it was. I got the image from a book. Apart from the plants, they’re from real.’

  ‘You’re talented,’ she says. ‘It’s much more than good drawing, it’s the whole design.’ She traces her finger around the Celtic knotwork and leaf border of the picture.

  ‘A bit hippy,’ I laugh.

  ‘But wait till you see this!’ She’s grinning as she passes over a glitter-wrapped package.

  Inside is a sumptuous hand-embroidered little bag. I stroke it. ‘Did you do this?’ I ask, but it’s obvious she did. ‘Aren’t we the crafty ones? It’s lovely. I’ll use it for my pencils. Thanks.’

  We lean over and kiss, then sit, holding our gifts.

  ‘How are you?’ she says. ‘I mean, after the miscarriage. Was it awful?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I pause. ‘The broken heart’s healing, too. Aren’t you going to say you told me so?’

  ‘We told you so.’

  ‘I couldn’t help it.’

  ‘I’ve been so furious with you for being stupid, letting yourself get caught up. And sorry for you, too.’

  ‘I know. Stig said you were pitying me. That only wound me up more. Anyway, you can have the satisfaction of being right. He was a bastard. A two-timing manipulative bastard.’ I stroke the pencil case.