Bear Fursuits Books 1-4: Bear Fursuits

by Montrose, Isadora

  When she had asked Jack how Roman fitted into his family tree, he had shrugged. “I don’t exactly know. Mom and Pop brought him over from Ukraine and told us this little kid was our cousin. Mom and Aunt Klara kept going on about his papa and what a fine, handsome genius he was. But other than that they were short on details.

  “I think Roman’s father was killed by KGB guys turned mobsters. But who knows.” Jack shrugged. Clearly he didn’t care. “Uncle Van told us some tall tale about his Larisa’s grandchildren. But I was fifteen and more concerned with persuading my father to let me grow a mustache than with some underfed boy. Can’t say I paid much attention.”

  Jack leaned back in his armchair and relaxed. He did enjoy telling stories. “After the USSR fell apart, my mom spent a lot of time rescuing her family from Russia and the Ukraine and bringing them to Hanover. You’ve met Uncle Yuri, and Uncle Mischa and the rest. Some of them are her mother’s cousins, and some of them her father’s.

  “Uncle Vanya came over as her father’s brother. But the way he talks, he was her grandmother’s brother and he’s not a Zhadanov at all. I guess the five of us just accepted that mom’s family tree was cobbled together and their papers faked so they could emigrate.”

  Gabriella must have looked disapproving because Jack eyes became hard and cold. “They’ve none of them ever been a charge on their new country. They’ve all worked from Day One. They’re grateful to be in America and not be at risk if they show their bear.

  “Mostly they don’t talk about the old country, except for Vanya. But who could believe the half of what he says? The Russian Revolution is all mixed up with the Siege of Stalingrad—it’s all yarns for a long winter’s evening.”

  “But what about Roman?” Gabriella tried to steer the conversation back to her lover.

  “He was just a little tyke when they brought him over. I believe his mother and stepfather were abusing him. I’m pretty sure that Mom and Uncle Vanya bought him, but that’s only my guess. Aunt Klara was married a long time ago in Ukraine, but her mate died in a gulag, I think.

  “Klara insisted that she and Vanya get to raise the boy. And Mom had to give in. I think she was wanting another baby, but, well let’s just say that if there is anyone who can get my mom to back down it’s her Little Father.”

  Gabriella had laughed. “I’d like to see that. I mean, your mom’s great. Hannah says that having her in her life means she now has three moms. But you have to admit your mother is a bit bossy.”

  Jack roared with laughter and his broad shoulders shook. “Just a bit. If you look under pushy in the dictionary there’s her picture.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Outside the Ranger Station, the dirty and exhausted volunteers were gobbling up vats of chili and mountains of rolls. Everyone was a little dispirited by how arduous the weekend had been, for so little result. But cups of hot coffee and generous portions of food were reviving them.

  Asher guided Gabriella past the milling diners and into the Ranger Station. It too was chock full of Rangers in uniform. They seemed to be eating the same food as the volunteers outside. A handful of them had corralled a table in what Gabby guessed was usually a space for tourists to wait.

  Asher was greeted by many of the Rangers. They all—men and women—knew and liked him. A dozen times he explained that their find was unlikely to be related to Roman.

  “He jumped out of that plane in his flight suit. This camper had a tent and sleeping bag,” he repeated patiently to his interlocutors. Their sad nods confirmed that everyone had started the day with at least a shred of hope. The rumors of Bascom’s find had fueled those hopes.

  Uncle Vanya had managed to commandeer a big shabby leather armchair in the back office. He looked even older than he had at Roman’s memorial service. Gabby was shocked at his straggly grey beard and drawn face. But he was the same effusive patriarch he had always been. And although he had aged, he was still a giant even in that room of large outdoorsmen.

  He jumped up when he saw Gabby and embraced her with a mug in one hand and his bowl of chili in the other. He kissed her on both cheeks and welcomed her.

  “Is Roman’s woman,” he announced to the room. “You need food,” he declared.

  One of his companions rose from wooden chair where he had been eating his supper. “I’m about done, Mr. Zhadanov, he said. “I’ll see to it.”

  “Is good, is good.”

  Gabriella found herself sitting in the abandoned chair facing Vanya’s. He offered her his mug in a meaningful way. Gabby shook her head. She didn’t know whether or not she would have to drive tonight, and she was afraid that Van’s enameled mug contained his favorite tipple.

  “Is where you go this night?” he asked when she was wiping her styrofoam bowl with the last of her roll.

  “I have a campsite until at least tomorrow morning.”

  “Is good. Klara made me bring camper.” He snorted. “But is more better for old bones. Is not so far. We go there and have a little talk about our boy.”

  Night had fallen when they set off for Vanya’s trailer. The little Airstream had been given a prime berth—far from other sites and overlooking a stretch of riverbank.

  “Is pretty here, no?” Vanya said opening his door and letting Gabby precede him.

  In the camper he abandoned any pretense of drinking coffee. He placed an unopened bottle of vodka that he retrieved from the freezer compartment of his little fridge and placed two shot glasses on the table.

  “We drink to my boy,” he announced.

  Gabby was glad she had eaten. It looked as though she had a night of hard drinking ahead of her. After the toast had been made, and their glasses emptied and refilled, Vanya looked slyly at her.

  “My boy is not dead,” he said. “He is living in these woods.”

  Gabriella started. Hope filled her. Then she remembered that Uncle Vanya had joined the search party looking for Roman’s remains. “Why do you think so?” she asked cautiously.

  “This year past, I dream every night about my boy.” Vanya’s blue eyes shimmered with tears in the overhead light.

  Gabby nodded and swallowed the lump in her throat.

  “I dream he is bear. Many, many nights. I am old man. I got nothing to do. So I go camping. I go all through the woods. Sometimes on my ATV, sometimes on Yury’s snowmobile. I take bear. And this spring I find my boy.” He paused triumphantly to drain his glass and refill it. “Drink, drink,” he ordered Gabby.

  Obediently she tossed back her shot. Vodka burned a path down her throat. Her eyes watered and she coughed.

  “Maybe is enough,” he said looking at her assessingly. “Is no good if womans drunk.”

  “If you found Roman, where is he?”

  “Well, I don’t find exactly Roman. I find where he live in woods. I find his sign. But I don’t find him. Is big territory he have. And I am only one old man.” He sighed pitiably and peered at Gabby from under bushy grey brows.

  Was she being manipulated or what? But hope rose in Gabby’s breast. She forced herself to state the facts. “Roman couldn’t take full bear. He wasn’t capable of more than a partial transformation.”

  “Tchah. If that boy work on his bear the way he work on football or flying, he would be bear. But always he is saying, ‘I can’t. I can’t.’ Tchah. ” Vanya snorted again. “Only with bear is he so foolish lazy. But if he fall out of plane, maybe he have to turn. Maybe he have to stay in bear long time.” He drank again. And refilled his glass.

  Gabby assessed the elderly man. He seemed no drunker now than he had at the Ranger Station, while she was pleasantly relaxed. Tipsy, she reproached herself.

  “So you think Roman is living in the woods in bear and doesn’t want to be a man anymore?” she asked.

  Vanya shook his head. “Is not so easy to be bear long, long time and then be man again. When I was young man and the army came for me, I went into the woods. I leave my Larisa and I go deep, deep into the forest.

  “It was winter,
and the recruiters plenty men they caught hiding. But not me. I took bear and found food and good place to sleep. Long time I stay in forest. Long, long time. At first sometimes I shift and come back to village for visit my Larisa. We make some babies. I go back to forest.

  “I prefer,” he said sorrowfully. “I come back to village not so often. I stay bear for years, and years. I forget to be a man. I hunt, I fight, I sleep all winter.” Vanya looked at Gabby to see how she was taking his tale.

  “So what happened?” she asked, intrigued despite herself.

  “My Larisa happen. My wife she is good woman. She is bear also. She come into forest and she save me. She find and she love me until I again am man. I go back to village.” He laughed bitterly. “She tell me Tzar is dead. Is no more Imperial Army. She not say is now Red Army.

  “They come, they see big, strong young man. They take me. I have for to go to war. And while I am fighting Germans, my Larisa she die.”

  He leaned forward and Gabby could not look away from his piercing blue eyes. “Roman needs his woman to save him. I take you to where he is king, and you find.”

  Well, she had wondered where to begin her search. Why not where Vanya thought he had found Roman’s spoor? Even if it was just a crazy old man’s fantasy, it was a place to start.

  “Okay,” she said. “When do you want to leave?”

  * * *

  Vanya had wanted her to sleep in his trailer, but Gabby had insisted on returning to her campsite. Her neighbors on one side had long departed, but the elderly couple to the right were relieved when she showed up.

  “I didn’t want to make a fool of myself, reporting you missing,” said the woman who introduced herself as Debby Hillman from Olympia. “But this is bear country, and when you didn’t come back after supper, we did wonder.”

  “I was waylaid by old friends,” she said truthfully.

  “Ah, well. Goodnight.” Mrs. Hillman closed the door of her camper and extinguished her lights.

  Gabby wanted to think about Vanya’s story. He had told it with such verve and sincerity that he had made a believer of her, at least momentarily. But aside from his absurd claim to be in his thirteenth or fourteenth decade, the gap between the Tzar’s Imperial Army and the Red Army of World War II wasn’t a few years but twenty-five.

  His beautiful Larisa, for a start, would have been an old woman when she went to fetch him from the forest. She suspected Van had told her a version of an old Ukrainian folktale, modified for her credulous ears.

  And yet she was going to join him on his hunt for Roman. He claimed to have found Roman’s fresh scent. Well, she had a nose too and she could use her own excellent bear senses to determine if Van was just a poor deluded grief stricken bear. Not that she herself wasn’t a poor deluded lovelorn bear.

  If nothing else the old man was good company and someone to watch her back. She might love the woods, and be comfortable in the wilderness, but it could be dangerous. There were bears, and wolves, and coyotes and poachers.

  They would leave tomorrow at dawn. She would park her SUV beside Van’s old jeep and Airstream trailer. They would take his ATV and head north. Now it was time to sleep.

  * * *

  The Black Bear had completed his rounds. He had eaten his fill. And he had returned to the rocks overlooking his river to sleep. As the sun sank behind the trees he draped his enormous bulk over the rocks and rested his head on his favorite boulder.

  The moon came up and was the indifferent witness to the Black Bear’s repose. As he wriggled in his slumbers, the bear rolled onto his back. His legs lengthened and became the thick, muscular columns of a tall, athletic man. His immense belly smoothed into tanned brown skin and the fur that covered it retreated.

  The man’s face emerged as the bear’s muzzle morphed into the heavy, bearded jaw of a titan. A snarled black beard grew down the man’s thick neck and tangled with the thick mat of black hair that sprouted from his broad chest. The hair on his belly narrowed to a thin arrow that ended in the bushy triangle of his pubes where his penis curled dormant and lax.

  The man’s big hands found his head and gripped it and pulled hard in his sleep, as if to lift his head off the pillar of his muscular neck. He groaned loudly, as if his head pained him, but at length his hands fell away and he slept on. He dreamed.

  His mate was sleeping quietly tonight. She had a companion. In his dream the man was aware this should disturb him, yet the scent of her companion pleased him. It was a safe smell. His mate was safe. She had no need of him tonight.

  A watcher would have seen the giant’s tumescent organ swell as he dreamed, and then deflate. One big hand scratched his privates, and under his eyelids his eyes moved back and forth. He moaned in his sleep.

  The sleeper was small and afraid. He lay under a tangle of blankets and trembled as someplace close by two voices shouted. He kept still, afraid to breathe lest they remember some fault of his.

  “Tell them he’s Pavel’s brat,” Step-papa roared.

  “You know it is not so. There are tests these days.” Mama’s voice was shrill. “Let us be satisfied with the money they sent already.”

  A hard slap, and then silence. And then his mother’s voice again, softer, placating. “All right, I’ll tell them he should live with his father’s people. But first they have to send more money.”

  A drunken guffaw. “Once they smell that little bastard, they’ll know you spread your thighs for some filthy piece of gypsy bear trash. You make sure we get that money first.” Another slap.

  The sleeper put both his little hands over his ears and shut his eyes tightly during the fistfight that followed. He vowed that he would never be a bear. He would be good.

  As dreams do, the sleeper’s changed. He was in a big, noisy, echoing room. He was small and scared. Big arms and huge hands reached for him, he flinched and ducked his head. A soft voice murmured and the large hands withdrew.

  A soft and plump face wreathed in wrinkles and smiles came down to his level. He looked into the bright blue eyes of a babushka. Tightly braided grey hair was wound in a circle around this baba’s head. She held out a single hand palm up and smiled at him.

  “Laskavo prosymo, pleminnyk,” she said in a kind voice. “Welcome, nephew.” Her old hand gently stroked the little one he placed in hers. “I am your Aunt Klara,” the baba went on. “You have come to America to live with me and my Papa.”

  The little boy looked at her unwilling to move. Behind the old lady a row of big men and women were clucking in this new language. But when a tall, dark haired woman knelt beside the baba she too spoke in the language of home.

  “Laskavo prosymo, Roman. I am your Aunt Katharina. We are very pleased that you are here.” She held out a single hand and stroked his spare one gently when he placed it in hers. “You look just like your Papa,” she told him and wiped her eyes. “Isn’t that so, Aunt Klara?”

  The baba nodded. “Our pleminnyk is the image of his Papa.” She let go of the boy’s hand to pull him against her big, soft bosom in a fierce hug. She kissed both his cheeks and let the tears roll down her cheeks.

  A giant stepped forward rumbling at the two women and the sleeper was lifted up and clasped to a hard wide chest while a bristly face kissed his cheeks. “Is fine, big boy,” said a deep voice in the language of home. “He has a look of my Larisa.” He kissed the boy’s face again. “I am your Uncle Vanya,” he informed him. “We are most glad to have you come to live with us.”

  The sleeper was trying to decide if he was safe when the giant lifted him even higher and set him astride his broad shoulders. He clutched frantically at the thick, coarse, grey curls in front of him and the giant chuckled and placed his big hands carefully around the little calves that dangled on his chest.

  “I’ve got you, pleminnyk,” the deep voice informed him and the world steadied.

  The little sleeper put his face into the curls before him and breathed in. The giant’s scent was strange yet familiar. He relaxed and set his
cheek on top of the curls. Then he heard another voice.

  This one was hard and female and was speaking the language of this new place. He could not understand her rapid spate of words, but he recognized her officious tones. This was how bossy people who had power spoke. He trembled and clutched at the shirt beneath his little hands.

  The two new aunties seemed afraid of her too. They rummaged in their bags and produced papers. The sleeper held on tighter and tried to make himself smaller. Sometimes that helped. He heard the bossy woman say his name as she shook her blonde head.

  The giant didn’t seem to notice that his passenger had a death grip on his shirt. He spoke soothingly to the bossy woman. His deep voice was calmly compelling and defused the boy’s anxiety. The shrill voice became lower when she answered the giant. She seemed suddenly to forget whatever fuss she had been about to make.