The Dancing Bear … (another short story)

Marissa walked around a lot. Sometimes, she admitted to herself, she didn’t walk enough. So last weekend Marissa left the concrete jungle to visit an old male friend up North. She had gone with an open mind and an open heart. She had wanted to visit Nature unencumbered by fences or park rules. She knew she did not have quite the stuff to wander willy-nilly alone in the woods by herself. She was no survivalist: she was not clear on the subtle differences between oak and ash, she did not know how to make tea from autumnal golden rod. But he did. And he seemed to use Natural things in a clean way. He was a hunter of wildlife, he said, a professional: not a butcher, he was not a killer. He was not afraid or ashamed to say so. He was a warm-blooded honest male who walked with Nature. He was no Liar.

I enter your cabin late at night. You have shaved, applied after-shave. I know you have napped. You are prepared and waiting for me. You have started drinking, slowly, rye and water.

You place food on the table. Hot potatoes, a chicken leg. I tease, “The day’s catch?” You laugh and pour another drink, you comment on the stinkin’ rain. We both know we have a long and pleasant night ahead of us.

I eat while you chat. You are friendly with me. You see that I am somewhat cautious, citified, polite. I attempt to ease up: I swear from time to time. To ease you. I impress you with my faulty French. You laugh.

We move to the fire with our drinks. Rye. And we begin the deadly hunt in earnest. Perspectives and principals ricochet wildly within these cedar cabin walls. They fly free between us, the hunter and the huntress. We are protected only by the Survival Kit of Kindness. (It is not for you nor I to be trapped, snared, beaten in the bush. No. We are not like some cold killers that we know.)

We are sexually different you and I. Male and Female. And as such we are riveted to each other’s eyes and movements. It is something. When speaking at times I have to look away from your sky blue orbs. I see so much there, so much reflected, so much projected. I am entranced by the furrows of emotion chiselled on your ancient and antique face. I imitate you as you imitate me. We swirl closer. Closer. But. There is no touch. You know not to touch me. You stand and place another birch log on the fire. We are drinking seriously now. I find you magnetic, compelling, but I am controlled, distant. I have hunted with you before. You have taught me this. We both watch carefully, you and I, for the nuances of fight, flight and fright. You command my attention. As you always do. You control with humor. Wry with rye. Yet, I am aware of you: the wise and cagey hunter.

I wait for you to wait on me. And you do. I smoke your stale cigarettes. I drink your booze. Eat your food. Accept your gruff hospitality. And yet I do it with a modicum of hostility. I am your captive. I am your guest for the evening. I must watch you. Yet, you are at ease, not fussed by anything, by me. You knew I would come. You knew I would need to be with you. Sooner or later.

You babble on. Brimming with stories of the wild, of women, of the world. Your tales of manhood are softened by the remembrances of your youth in Sudbury. You tell of hunting at the age of eight. Of putting game on the table at your mother’s home. You speak of working the coal pits as a kid. You tell these tales with affection, bitterness, honesty and drink. You curse your lack of education. Grade 6. I shrug. My college degree means nothing I say. You disagree. You ain’t nothing in this society without it, you say. I disagree. ‘Character is built by experience and exposure not just by studying. Personal challenge is the best and only teacher’. You agree, but disagree. You say, Education gives you an opportunity to study it. I ask, what ‘it’? You take a long slug on your cool drink and slowly turn those magical all-seeing eyes on me. “It is it,” you say. We laser lock. Bolt on bolt. Trigger to trigger. Bull’s Eye.

I will not speak. I find my words suddenly inadequate to your gift of conjure.

And yet, when I do, you love it, my voice. You lap it up. My big words and college phrases. I am so self-conscious of your eagerness to learn from me. You hunger for me. And yet to my jaded, educated, cynical ear your voice is like a clear crystal river radiating up from the murky depths of the bubbling media madness. I hunger for you. We desire.

We drink some more. You, in a pause, tell me I am beautiful. We watch the flames. Destroy and create anew. Flicker. I cannot bear to have you say these words to me. I look down. I look again at the fire. Our conversation has abruptly stopped. I look at you. You are staring at me. The bolt look. I give it back to you. This time I give you more then I have ever given anyone. You eventually sniff, and smile. You stretch, wipe your eye, stand and go to the fridge for more ice.

Meanwhile I continue to sit by the fire aching with the total absolute aloneness of this new century.

You say, upon return, with glass in hand and glistening cheeks, “Listen kid, you know as well as I, ‘it’ means survival. One on one. Alone. Solitary. Solo.”

I look up at you. The sadness clutching my heart. Your eyes are muddy with rye. You stand there, weaving, waiting for my answer. I cannot and I will not harm you when you are so vulnerable. I do not have that cold killer instinct to strike just to have the kill. I refuse to let you believe that I know that what you have just said is true. That fact must never be fired between us. I stop the game. Quietly. I touch your leg, briefly, and joke. Something dumb, something really stupid.

You smile. You burp. You touch my hair absently and say you are going to bed.

You leave me there sitting by the fire. I watch those flames. The heat glows on my cheeks. I sit very still. Locked as I am to the memory of your brilliant sky blue eyes.