Bearwalker (6 page)

“Y
ou can never have enough flashlights.” That is what Grama Kateri said as she helped me get my things together for the trip to Chuckamuck. Was it just last night when she said that? Was it just this morning when she hugged me good-bye and I walked out the door of her trailer and heard its rattly aluminum door bang shut? Right now it feels as if it were weeks ago, or even in another lifetime. So much has happened in only eleven hours.

But I am feeling very glad right now that she said those words, which were accompanied by her handing me a big plastic bag from the Double Discount Store. It held six flashlights of varying shapes and sizes and the batteries to go with them. One of them, a mini Maglite, has a band with a Velcro strip so I can put it around my forehead like a miner's light. That small light
is in my left coat pocket, its weight balanced against the two cigarette-lighter-sized disposable flashlights in my right pocket. Two others, both medium-sized ones, are in my hip pockets. The black one is just a flashlight, but the red one has a laser pointer and a panic alarm in it.

The last and biggest of my six flashlights, which is eighteen inches long and as heavy as a club, is in my right hand. It has some kind of high-intensity bulb in it. When I turned it on as I stepped out of the meeting hall, it shot out a beam like a searchlight as I pointed it toward the cloudy sky.

“Whoa, Baron,” Mr. Wilbur said. “Turn that off, buddy. If those clouds weren't up there you'd be blinding the astronauts in the international space station.”

So I turned it off.

“If you turn your flashlight on while we are around the campfire, it will be confiscated,” Mr. Mack had then announced, smiling all the time. And he had kept smiling as, one after another, he had taken away the flashlights that had been flicked on by various campers who were either forgetful or testing the boundaries. Each flashlight had gone into the canvas bag behind the log where Mr. Mack sat. Finally, by my estimation, I
was the only kid left with a flashlight. I could feel Mr. Mack just waiting to swoop down on me. No way. I was not about to have my light taken away, even if it did have to remain turned off.

But I'm glad to have the solid feel of it in my hand, especially since the only visible illumination here is the campfire. The last light pole of the camp is back at the trailhead, which is around a little hill that cuts off the fire circle from sight of the buildings of Camp Chuckamuck.

I'd feel better if my club flashlight were a gun of some kind. Preferably loaded with silver bullets. But the only gun in the whole of Camp Chuckamuck is Mr. Osgood's old .22, and it's not even here now because he took it with him.

Mr. Philo has finished telling the story he was asked to share to start out the campfire gathering. I've been listening pretty close to it because it is one of my favorites and the very one I mentioned earlier. It's the Mohawk tale of the boy who lived with the bears. The boy's parents had died and the only one left to care for him was his uncle. But his uncle had a twisted mind and resented having to care for the boy. So he took him deep into the forest, tricked him
into crawling into a cave, wedged a stone into its mouth to trap him there, and then left. The animals of the forest rescued the boy, and because he was an orphan they offered to adopt him and allowed him to choose which animal family he would join. He chose the bears.

Mr. Philo's voice isn't the voice of an old man. It's rich and deep, and he tells the story so well that I forget there's anyone telling it. It's as if the story is just happening around me, as if I'm that boy safe in the security of the mother bear's protective presence. It makes me remember what it was like when my family was strong and whole, when both my mom and my dad were there with their arms around me.

I'm so close to the fire that it seems as if sweat is getting into my eyes, rolling down my cheeks. I wipe my face on my sleeve. I don't want anyone to think that I'm crying. It's just sweat, that's all.

Mr. Philo finishes the story. Mr. Mack stands up and starts slapping his hands together. That huge pasted-on smile is back on his face. “Everyone!” he shouts. “Come on! Show your appreciation. Let's all have a round of applause for the former director.”

Everyone applauds, even though it breaks
the mood. Which is what I think Mr. Mack intended. Then there is an awkward silence. Using the heavy wooden cane that he leaned on as we walked to the fire circle, Mr. Philo has lowered himself slowly down onto the bench next to his wife. She's wrapping her blanket around his shoulders. He looks tired now. Mrs. Philo is whispering something into his ear and he is nodding wearily.

“I have a story to share,” a heavy voice growls from the darkness behind Mr. Mack.

M
r. Mack is standing up and clapping his hands. “Wonderful!” he gushes. “Now we are going to hear a
real
Native American story from a true Native American.”

My fear is overcome, for the moment at least, by my disgust at this obnoxious man and the disrespect he has just shown to Mr. Philo with that one simple statement. As if the story he just shared with us was a lie.

I don't know anything about how boards work, but I wonder how the board of directors for Camp Chuckamuck ever chose Mr. Mack.

Walker White Bear looms up from the darkness behind the camp director. He moves slowly as he takes the place of Mr. Philo on the slightly raised ground that elevates him above the rest of the circle. He's not as tall as the old basketball star, but he's a very big man. There's menace in the way he walks, each step so heavy
that it seems as if his feet are sinking into the ground. I shove my hand into my pocket and find the shape of my bear good luck charm. It's just a carved piece of wood and I know I'm not being logical. But all I can think is that I need help. Just feeling it in my hand reassures me. A little.

“There's nothing as dangerous as a bear,” Walker White Bear begins. His voice comes from so deep in his chest that each word is like the thud of a drum. “They're all teeth and claws. They'll tear you apart if they get ahold of you, and rip your head off. I've been around bears. I've walked with bears. Never show any weakness to a bear. Stand your ground. Face them down. Comes to the point where it's either kill or be killed, you have to be ready to do what needs to be done.”

He looks around the circle of awed adolescent faces staring up at him. He has just about everyone here hypnotized. Not the Philos, though. And not Mr. Wilbur, who is sitting between the two old people with his arms around them. And not me.

The one who calls himself Walker White Bear nods his head and smiles a closemouthed, self-satisfied smile.

“Don't expect any favors from a bear. Whatever you get from a bear, you got to take.” He reaches up one pawlike hand to grab the ugly claw necklace around his neck and shake it. “That story about a bear taking care of a child? Hrrrggghh!” His deep growling laugh shakes the air. “That's not going to happen. You know what a bear would do to a child? Let me tell you what I saw when I was up in Alaska, up where they have real bears and not those measly little black bears you get around here. Up where they have grizzlies.”

He pauses for dramatic effect. I know that whatever he says next is going to be unpleasant.

“I was walking along a trail when I saw a little baby bear. It was up on a rock with its eyes closed. If any of you girls saw it you would have said it looked like a little teddy bear.”

He slowly growls those words “little teddy bear” to make the mockery in his tone even more emphatic.

“Isn't that cute? You probably would have wanted to give it a hug. But when I got closer, it wasn't that cute to see. The whole lower half of its body was gone. One of those big bears had got hold of it.”

“Sweet!” a voice interjects. I don't have to
look to recognize the voice as Asa's. I want to tell him to shut up, but I hold my tongue. I don't want to attract the attention of that big menacing, looming figure, have him realize how clearly I can see through the untruths that began with his very first statement.

“Sweet,” Walker White Bear growls, nodding his head with pleasure as he repeats what Asa said. “That's just the way a little baby bear tastes. A big old male bear will kill and cannibalize any bear cub it can get its claws on. Why, even a mama bear will eat her own little ones if she gets hungry enough. Kill or be killed. Eat or get eaten. That's the real way of the world.”

Walker White Bear pauses. I hope he's done, but I'm wrong. He spreads his arms wide. Some of the kids closest to him shrink back at that gesture, which makes it look for a moment as if he is going to grab someone, but he turns it into a yawn and a stretch. His mouth opens a little wider than usual and for the briefest second I catch a glimpse of his eyeteeth before he puts his hand over his mouth to cover them. They're not huge like those of a bear, but they are noticeably larger and sharper than most human canines. A shiver goes down my back. I look quickly down to avoid eye contact with him. I
feel his inquiring gaze turned my way. The hairs on the back of my neck are standing up. Finally he looks away and starts talking again.

“But that's not the story I want to share with you. I know how much young folk love scary stories. And this is a story about this camp right here. A camp cook who was here over the summer brought her son with her. He was a big boy. He was quiet and seemed a little slow. The boys and girls who were here as campers were all from goood families…”

He drawls out those words sarcastically—“…good families”—making it clear that he means just the opposite.

“Those boys and girls had been given everything they needed by their rich parents. They weren't poor like the Joneses and their boy. But those spoiled little rich brats decided to torment that poor boy. They played mean tricks on him. They never figured they would be getting their comeuppance. Daddy and Mommy would always protect them. But then one day one of their tricks went a little too far and…”

“Stop right there!”

The tone of that voice is so commanding that Walker White Bear actually does stop. He turns, though, with a murderous look on his
face to stare down at the one who just spoke up and who rises to her feet now, unafraid, to face him. It's Mrs. Philo.

“No!” she says. “You will not tell that story. What happened to that boy at this camp was a tragedy. I will not abide it being turned into a grisly tale to terrify young people.”

Mr. Philo stands up by his wife. He may be a very old man, but his demeanor is not that of a gentle elder right now. He shifts his cane to his left hand as he holds up his right, his index finger raised toward the sky.

“Sir,” he says, lifting the heavy cane to point it at the hulking figure's chest. “You're done.” Mr. Philo's voice is not loud or filled with growling menace like that of the one he has just silenced, but there is such quiet authority, such dignity in his words, that everyone hears him.

Walker White Bear doesn't step back at first, though. He rocks onto the balls of his feet, almost like a bear about to charge. But the tall old man stands his ground, holding up that heavy cane as straight as a spear.

“Now,” he says, gesturing to the side with his finger. “Go.”

Walker White Bear turns away. For a moment it seems as if he is about to drop down
on all fours. But instead he just walks out of the circle of light from the dying campfire and disappears into the darkness.

“I think we've had enough stories for the night.”

It's Mr. Wilbur. He's standing next to the Philos. I hadn't seen him get up to join them. Everyone in the circle begins to move. Most people seem either a little confused or else oblivious to what has just gone on.

Mrs. Smiler leads the group back down the trail toward the turn around the hill where the first power pole will become visible. The use of flashlights by us kids may still be forbidden, but she's using one to find her way.

I hang back, like I usually do. That's why I hear what Mr. Philo is saying in a low, firm voice to Mr. Mack.

“You and your staff are going to meet with me tonight.”

Mr. Mack starts to say something. Mr. Philo holds up a hand to forestall any comment from the camp director. “Not now. As soon as the campers are in their cabins.”

For once, Mr. Mack is not smiling. He looks as if he is sucking on a lemon as he walks away after shouldering his canvas bag. The only ones
left here are the Philos, Mr. Wilbur, and myself.

“You can douse the fire now,” Mrs. Philo says to Mr. Wilbur, who has been using a stick to spread out the last of the glowing coals in the fire pit. There's a long hiss as he pours the bucket of water and then it is totally dark and silent.

A loud scream echoes through the night.