Touching Spirit Bear

by Ben Mikaelsen

  Cole remembered once when he had disobeyed his father and come home late. After being strapped until his skin was raw with welts, he watched in horror as his dad paused and turned the belt around with his big knuckled hands. “You think life’s a game! You think you’re in charge! You think I’m a big joke!” his father shouted as he started hitting Cole again, this time with the metal buckle end.

  Again and again Cole screamed, “Don’t! Don’t! I’m sorry I came home late. I’ll obey! Please, Dad, don’t! Life’s not a game! Please stop!”

  As Cole kept screaming, his dad kept hitting him. That night was the only time Cole’s mom ever said anything in his defense. She came to the doorway, a drink in her hand. “Honey, you’re hurting him,” she said.

  Cole’s father spun around to face her. “You mind your own business or I’ll use this thing on you.”

  Cole’s mother retreated down the hall, but the strapping stopped.

  Cole stood and stretched. Going to an island had seemed like a good idea after being locked up for three months. Now it seemed stupid. It was mainly Garvey’s fault. After the fifth Circle meeting, when Cole had grown frustrated by all the references to jail, he had finally pleaded with the Circle members, “Why can’t you just believe me when I say I’m sorry and won’t ever hurt anybody again?”

  Peter’s lawyer had asked for the feather. “All your life you’ve lied, manipulated people, and tried to avoid consequences,” she said. “There is absolutely no reason to believe that you have truly changed inside.”

  “Great, then get rid of me,” Cole said. “Send me someplace where I’m not in your face and can’t hurt anyone. But why do I have to go to jail?”

  “Cole has a point,” said Garvey. “Maybe there is some place other than prison.”

  “Anyplace he goes, there will be people he could assault,” Peter’s mother said. “It’s not like we can ship Cole to the Arctic Circle.”

  Garvey’s face came alive with thought, and he asked for the feather again. “I’m a native Tlingit,” he said. “I was raised in Southeast Alaska. It is possible I could make arrangements to have Cole banished to a remote island on the Inland Passage. This is something First Nation people have done for hundreds of years. Cole could undergo a vision quest of sorts, an extended time alone to face himself and to face the angry spirits inside of him.”

  “Would anybody be with him?” asked the Keeper.

  “No.” Garvey shook his head. “Occasionally an elder would check on him. What makes banishment work is the extreme isolation. It allows the offender to spend a long period free of all friends, drugs, alcohol, and other influences that have gotten them into trouble. It’s a time to think.”

  “For how long?” asked Judge Tanner, his voice edged with skepticism.

  “Perhaps a year.”

  Peter’s mother motioned for the feather. “Okay, let’s say Cole is sentenced to some island for a year. What happens after that year if he hasn’t changed? Would he go free to hurt somebody else’s child?”

  Garvey shook his head. “Banishment isn’t a sentence. It’s simply a time for Cole to walk his talk. We tell him to give more than lip service to the idea of change, but what chance does he have to prove anything if he’s locked up? Sentencing would be delayed until the end of Cole’s banishment. Then this same Circle could reevaluate him and decide whether he has walked his talk, and whether a sentence is still necessary.”

  “What do you think of this idea?” the Keeper asked Cole.

  Cole shrugged. “I’ve spent lots of time outside. It’s not like I couldn’t take care of myself.” He turned to Garvey. “But could I still end up going to jail after spending a whole year on some island?”

  “That would be totally up to you,” Garvey said. “You keep asking for a chance to prove you’ve changed. If you have, you have nothing to worry about.”

  Cole tried not to show it, but he was plenty worried.

  Suddenly everybody seemed to motion for the feather at once. Rapidly the feather worked its way around the Circle. The air bristled with comments and questions, and by the time the Keeper finished her closing prayer that night, everyone had agreed that Garvey should explore to see whether the plan might actually work.

  After the meeting, Garvey motioned Cole aside. “You do know that banishment is much harder than any jail cell, don’t you?” he said.

  “Then what’s the point?” Cole asked.

  “If you go to jail, I won’t bet a nickel on your future.”

  “So what’s so hard about living on some island for a while?”

  Garvey smiled knowingly. “Go ahead and try it. Try manipulating a storm or lying to your hunger. Try cheating the cold.”

  CHAPTER 7

  UNABLE TO FIND much dry wood on the ground, Cole broke lower branches directly off the trees and fed the fire. The fire smoked heavily and stung his eyes whenever it drifted his way, but at least it helped keep away the swarms of bloodthirsty mosquitoes.

  As he gathered more wood for the night, Cole glanced over at Garvey’s blanket lying on the ground. The at.óow would come in handy tonight if it got cold. Satisfied with the pile of wood he had gathered, Cole settled in beside the smoky, sputtering flames and gazed out toward the mouth of the bay.

  Suddenly flashes of black and white sliced the water. Cole spotted the glistening keel-like fins of an orca whale guiding her young calf along the shoreline in search of food. Both surfaced repeatedly for breaths. Chuffs of air from their blow-holes broke the still air.

  Cole ignored the orcas and kept tending the fire. He watched the thick white smoke drift upward like a twisted ribbon dissolving into the sky. His cheek muscles tightened, and a dull anger glazed his eyes. He felt wearier than he had ever felt before. With his hands in tight fists, he closed his eyes and shook his head back and forth, trying to clear the anger and pressure from his mind. He wanted to think straight. He needed to think straight.

  When Cole opened his eyes once more, his breath caught.

  The bear had reappeared.

  Beside the water, not a hundred yards away, the Spirit Bear stood watching him with a fearless and passive stare.

  “You maggot!” Cole yelled, leaping to his feet. “I’ll kill you!”

  He searched the ground and found the charred knife blade. He needed more than a knife. Turning his back on the bear, he walked up to the trees to find a thin, straight sapling to make a spear. As he searched, he carefully avoided the thistly Devil’s Club.

  When he found the perfect sapling, he hacked it off with the knife blade and sharpened the end. Balancing the spear in his hand, he nodded with satisfaction, then returned to the fire and rested the spear against a tree. Again the Spirit Bear had vanished, but it didn’t matter. If it showed its ugly face again now, it was dead!

  Cole hung close to the fire the rest of the day and fed the damp wood into the flames, purposely using the smoke to help drive off mosquitoes. By late afternoon, his eyes stung and he scratched irritably at a dozen puffy bites. Hunger knotted his stomach, but he ignored the craving. Instead he hiked to the stream and drank his belly full. He kept the knife and the spear by his side. As darkness settled, the Spirit Bear failed to show itself again. Cole cut boughs off the spruce trees and fashioned a mattress beside the fire. He huddled under the at.óow, curling into a fetal position to keep warm. This day had been easy. Surviving on this island would have been a piece of cake had he wanted to stay, especially with supplies.

  Cole rolled onto his back and gazed up at the sky. Stars glistened overhead like frozen fireworks. Curtains of northern lights out over the bay danced wildly under the Big Dipper. Cole turned his head and stared into the black nothingness of the shrouded woods. That was how he felt inside—empty. There was no beauty. For two hours his mind roiled with turbulent thoughts before he fell into a restless, tortured sleep.

  Cole awoke during the night to strange noises deep in the trees. A loud splash sounded in the bay. He sat up and restoked the fire. As he c
oaxed the flames higher, his thoughts again focused on escape.

  This time his escape would end differently. He would leave midday, right after high tide. By the time he cleared the bay, the receding current would help wash him away from the island. Then it would be easy to make it to the next island. Still planning his escape, Cole again drifted off to sleep.

  The next time he awoke, he opened his eyes to an eerie stillness. It was as if the sky were holding its breath. The little sounds that normally filled the night air had quieted. Cole sat up and peered toward the blackness of the tree cover. Was the Spirit Bear prowling in the shadows just beyond view?

  “You mangy dog!” Cole shouted into the night.

  The night remained still.

  Cole lay back down and pulled the at.óow tightly around his neck. He adjusted a spruce bough poking him in his back. Still sleep refused to return. As dawn came, the black sky turned gray, then clouded over, and it began to drizzle.

  Cole crawled stiffly to his feet, numb from lack of sleep. His breath showed in the crisp morning air, and a tight knot twisted at his gut—he needed food. The swim today would demand energy. But first he needed to build up the fire that had burned down to hot coals.

  Cole gathered kindling as he swung his arms and stomped his feet to warm up. He knelt and blew into the embers. Gradually smoke curled upward. He added more wood and coaxed the smoke into flames, then headed out in search of food.

  He found it easier to walk on the spongy grasses above tide line instead of over the slippery rocks nearer the water. In one hand he held the spear, in the other the charred knife blade. When he reached the mouth of the bay, he spotted three seagulls pecking at a half-eaten fish on the rocks.

  He rushed toward the gulls, hollering and swinging his arms until the strutting scavengers abandoned their find. Squawking, they took to the air. With the complaining gulls circling overhead, Cole picked up the remains of the fish. The front half had been bitten cleanly off. Cole glanced around for any sign of the Spirit Bear but saw nothing. Still eyeing the trees, he held up his find. The gulls had mangled the fish, but big pink chunks of fresh meat still clung to the skeleton.

  It wouldn’t be quite like burgers on the grill, but then this wasn’t exactly Minneapolis, Minnesota, either, Cole thought, heading back toward camp. As he walked, he picked dangling guts and dirt from the fish. This was the meal that would give him the energy he needed to escape.

  When Cole reached camp, he jabbed the blunt end of his spear into the chest cavity of the fish and rotated it over the smoky flames. As the meat charred, Cole ripped off chunks and ate. He gorged himself until his stomach bulged, then he walked to the stream for another drink. Returning, he picked more meat from the skeleton. It might be a while before he ate again.

  The steady drizzle turned to rain. Cole wished the sun would come out again. He tugged the at.óow tightly around his shoulders and circled the fire to keep away from the drifting smoke. As he added branches to keep the faltering flames alive, he watched the rain pelt the icy slate-gray waters of the bay.

  If only he could wait a couple of days for better weather. But he couldn’t. By then Edwin and Garvey would have returned to check on him. Cole crowded nearer to the fire. Already he had been on this island one full night. He would leave today, and he would leave warm and full of food.

  With the heavy overcast, it was hard to judge time. Cole guessed it might be another three or four hours until high tide. Already he could see the water level rising. He rolled a big rock over beside the smoky flames to use as a chair. The incessant rain made the fire sputter and send up whiffs of smoke with a sweet burnt smell. Cole wrung water from the at.óow and pulled it back over his shoulders. At least the mosquitoes had disappeared.

  When Cole looked up again to check the tide level in the bay, he blinked in disbelief. There, where the stream entered the bay, stood the Spirit Bear again. The huge white animal looked frozen on the shoreline, as motionless as the stones under its giant paws. It stared at Cole.

  Cole picked up the makeshift spear in one hand, the knife blade in the other. Keeping his eyes on the big creature, he hurried along the shoreline toward it. This time the bear could not pull one of its disappearing acts. It would have to run to escape. But still it remained, rain dripping from its matted coat.

  As Cole neared, he slowed. Any second now, the bear would turn and run. Just in case it didn’t, Cole raised the spear over his shoulder.

  Instead of fleeing, the bear shifted position to face Cole directly. Head hung low, it waited. Cole hesitated, then kept inching forward. It puzzled him that the bear would hold its ground. It must be bluffing. Surely it would turn and run. If it didn’t, it would die. He intended to kill it. Didn’t the stupid moron know that?

  “Get out of my face,” Cole muttered, stopping less than fifty feet away.

  The bear breathed in deeply but did not move.

  “Go on! Get!” Cole challenged.

  Still the rain fell, and the bear remained.

  Cole drew the spear back, then hesitated to glance over his shoulder. No one was watching. He could easily back away from this bear and not a single human being on the planet would ever know. Cole gripped the spear so hard his knuckles hurt. A lifetime of hurt, a lifetime of proving himself, a lifetime of anger controlled his muscles now. Again he inched forward.

  Scarcely twenty feet from the bear, Cole paused one last time. Vapor from the Spirit Bear’s breath puffed in tiny clouds from its wet black nose. Raindrops beaded on its white bushy hair and dripped off in miniature rivulets. The bear waited calmly as if part of the landscape, like a tree or a boulder, not conceding one inch of space.

  Cole found courage in the Spirit Bear’s stillness. It must be scared. Why else would it just stand there instead of attacking? Cole felt his smoldering anger ignite. He knew that soon life would be altered forever one way or another, but nothing in any cell of his being allowed him to back away. If the bear did not turn and run, that left only one alternative. “You’re dead,” Cole whispered.

  Even as he spoke, he started forward, gripping the knife and aiming the spear at the Spirit Bear’s broad white chest.

  CHAPTER 8

  WHEN COLE’S ADVANCE brought him within ten feet of the Spirit Bear, he made his move. He flung the spear with all his strength, fully intending to kill.

  A blur of white motion deflected the shaft down into the grass as the bear lunged. Cole never even had time to raise the knife before the bear was on him, clubbing him down with a powerful blow. Cole’s body folded and collapsed to the ground. Before he could roll away, another crushing paw shoved his face into the dirt. His jaw struck a rock.

  Rolling over, then scrambling to his feet, Cole ran toward the trees, but they offered no protection. The bear was on him again, dragging him down, its breath rotten. Cole gripped the knife with his left hand and clawed with his right at some long stalks of Devil’s Club—anything to pull himself away from the raking claws of the bear. With each desperate grab, hundreds of tiny thistles pierced his fingers.

  He ignored the thistles as the bear sank its teeth into his thigh, lifting him like a rag doll. Cole’s stomach churned, and he swung the knife wildly. Each time he stabbed the bear, its powerful jaws clamped harder. Cole felt his pelvis crack. His body went weak, and the knife slipped from his hand.

  The bear dropped him to the ground and pawed at his chest as if raking leaves. Sharp claws ripped flesh with each swipe. Cole raised his right arm to ward off the attack, and teeth clamped onto his forearm. Then everything seemed to happen in slow motion.

  He felt his body flop back and forth, the bear swinging him by the arm. Cole pounded the bear’s face with his fist, but nothing stopped the savage attack. In desperation, he grabbed the bear’s neck to free his arm from the crushing jaws. A handful of white hair pulled loose. Cole heard the loud crack of bones breaking in his forearm. Then the bear dropped him with a grunt.

  Cole cowered on the ground, pain piercing his shou
lder. All feeling in his right arm had disappeared. As the bear turned toward him again, Cole screamed, “No! No more!” but his words came out as coarse grunts. He collapsed onto his back.

  As if finishing its attack, the Spirit Bear placed its huge paws on Cole’s chest and gave a single hard shove. Air exploded from Cole’s lungs. Ribs snapped.

  Mouth wide open, Cole gasped but could not catch his breath. The Spirit Bear towered over him, its rank breath warm. Cole struggled to move his arms, his legs, anything to escape the white monster, but his body refused to move. Waves of nauseating pain flooded through him. Each time he gasped, pain gripped his chest and the thick sweet taste of blood filled his mouth.

  For an eternity, the bear remained standing over Cole in the chilling rain. Finally it drew in a deep breath, raised its massive head, and stepped casually to the side. With a lazy shuffle, it turned away and wandered down the shoreline.

  For long minutes, the world stood still. Gasping for air, Cole tried to roll to his side, but pain tore at his hip and chest. As air gradually seeped back into his lungs, he strained to raise his right arm, but his arm, like a broken branch in the grass, refused to move. The only movements Cole could make were with his left arm and his head.

  The incessant rain tickled his cheeks and mixed with the blood from his mouth, dripping red by the time it hit the ground. Cole closed his eyes. Was he dying? Every movement, every breath tortured him. The blood seeping into his throat choked him. He coughed, and pain ripped at his chest. His stomach churned, and the world threatened to turn black. Cole resolved never to cough again. He would drown first.

  He gazed upward and found himself under the branches of a tree in full view of the bay. The lumpy ground hurt. Barely ten feet away, seagulls strutted around, squawking, flapping their skinny wings, and picking at something in the grass.