short fiction -- bear dreams

He sat at the plywood-topped desk, scribbling a letter to a far-off and dry-hot state. Outside, the wind howled and gusted -- causing the little cabin to creak and gargle like the digestion of some wood creature. When the pale-luminous grey sheen outside broke, and patches of cloud scurried past, ghosts grey-cloud and errant, he could fairly see the field of rhododendron and humped grey-yellow beargrass below. The Butte had transformed into some howling waste, a moor, or tundra inviting all manner of sounds and sights previously invisible.

Moments later, clad in wool from head to leather-booted toe, the boy stood amongst the waist-high rhodies -- perfectly heather-like if it weren't for their gaudy clusters of pink flowers, lacy and showy as taffeta prom dresses. He stood on a dark-grey lichen-covered rock at the edge of the precipice, watching the mixing clouds roil in the talus bowl below. Wandering the game trails, he felt he could be anyplace -- anytime. The trees stood witness, stunted and limbless to the windward side.

Soon, he was loping and grunting down a road spur, wide arms apelike. Laughing, suddenly heard a muffled snap under leather and wool, way down at his left ankle. He fell, almost theatric, and howled his plight to the wind, rocking and cluthing at his ankle as the world tipped left to right like a view out a ship's porthole. But already, the ankle warmed and grew more control, and soon he was limping down the potholed red-dirt and gravel road -- bound for water.

He dropped easily into the small pit alongside the road where stones had been carefully stacked, sometime in the past, to catch a slow trickle of a spring coming out of the rock. He dropped to his hands and drank, no bow of reverence or thanks, as on other days. Only ears, sharp for the footsteps of some other carnivore, taking advantage of his vulnerable position.

He stood, hands hanging about his chest and jowls loose and dripping. Jumping out of the pit, he loped around the field looking for rotted logs to tear apart, the wind howled and circled, birds flitted from branch to branch -- keeping an eye on this strange newcomer.

Bleached white and already slumping into the earth like a fallen cake, he found a log. He kicked at it with the back of his foot, and it fell over easily, revealed the redwood-colored pulp beneath -- all run through with mazed coursings of grubs and carpenter ants. He fell to it with his gloved hands, rotted wood flinging into the air behind him. Lord knows what would have happened had he actually found grubs.

He looked quickly up. A sound vaguely like crunching gravel grabbed his ear. Crouching, he listened into the lukewarmm wind -- but nothing. He shambled on, looking for a place to sleep.

Some part of his humanity crept back in, synthesizing sounds out of the random chorus of the storm -- old men chanting, startled geese, trucks.

Disconcerted, he found a hollow in the leeward side of a low huckleberry bush and laid down. He pulled his cap over his ears and curled up -- marveling at the comfort.

Soon, the crisp flutter of little wings arrived behind him -- the type of sound that one catches only when the birds are too close to turn your head; eyes open, a smile on his lips, he tried to see the little visitor through the top of his head. It's little clawed feet created a ruckus in the dried leaves and grass. It fluttered off, soon to be followed by another curiosity seeker -- winged lilliputians inspecting their unconscious Gulliver. His heart warmed as he heard them gossiping on the branch of a nearby pine -- discussing the woolen anomaly. He drifted into an easy sleep.

Hearing something sharp -- he sat up quickly -- looking out over the bushes and stumps toward the road. He couldn't put his finger on it, but the presence still was; and he set his senses tight.

Suddenly a whack to the back of his head, as talons grabbed the stocking cap from his head, silent wings flapping as the sharp claws caught briefly in the tough thin skin to the back of his scalp. Before he knew it he'd jumped to his feet and swatted the cap out of the air, like a bobcat; throwing the large owl to the ground and breaking its spine. He stared, senseless. It didn't move. Kneeling, he stroked the downy-soft breast feathers and wondered at this calamity.

An image appeared of him, back in the tower and calm, winding together the last weavings of a fan of dun-grey feathers, by the light of a lantern.

Shuddering to, a huge fear of Bear waking him, he found him self again curled at the base of the bushes -- wind passing over him and only slightly tosseling the bangs of his forehead. Sad, he listened to the wind and wondered at himself.

By the time the first drop of rain touched his face, he was almost ready to go back. He stood, suddenly large against the landscape -- the bushes that were a forest to him were now a plain. Walking clumsily back to the wooden cross-hatchings supporting the tower he couldn't bring himself to mount the stairs. He grabbed a beam and hefted himself up -- the wind only occasionally catching him vulnerable and making him wonder why he never took this route before. 4 stories up -- the catwalk loomed like a prison wall above him. He conceded, and jumped carefully onto the penultimate landing of the stairwell, mounting the last steps, he felt the Bear sticking to his bones -- warm and secure inside his blood. It didn't slip away as he opened the door and entered the warmed air of the cabin.