Bush Blues Page 3

  The bear pummeled Snow with blows to his upper body. Huge, strong arms, nothing like a man’s at all. Snow felt the breeze and heard the swoosh the big arms made as they pummeled him. Paralyzed with fear, he saw the terrible creature’s fur up close through the fur of his parka. It was like looking at a rug come crazily alive. He thought absently that the thick fur really would make a good rug. Wild, stupid thoughts in the middle of a mauling.

  The bear bit his shoulder and ripped and bit again. Ferocious snapping. Snow heard the jaws snap, the cloth of his coat rip, and the deep guttural noises from deep inside the bear. Spit flew from the bear’s hellacious maw as the jaws worked. The bear made a primeval grunting noise no man would ever want to hear up close. Snow played dead, a ploy often used in bear attacks. It was his only defense.

  Frank and Chubby had done what was only natural when a bear charges—run in terror. As they slipped away, they heard the bear mauling Snow. Better to wait until it left.

  Snow sucked his shoulder away from the bear. He was lucky so far; the bear was getting mostly clothing in its mouth. His head was in the parka and had not been bitten, yet. The bear swiped Snow hard, slower this time, as if toying with him. Left. Right. Left. One swipe ripped his overalls, raked his flesh, and drew some blood. Snow was dazed. The whole thing seemed like it was happening in slow motion. He smelled the breath of the ten-foot bear. It felt hot and malicious. Time slowed almost to a stop.

  Then the bear seemed satisfied, suddenly slowing its attack and pausing. It batted Snow a couple times and bit him again, almost half-heartedly. Snow’s hand was at his side. He had a thought like a revelation straight from heaven, from God himself.

  Gun! His gun was by his hand. He slid his hand down and unsnapped the holster in one smooth motion. Point-blank range. Can’t miss, thought Snow. He pulled the trigger once, twice, three times, and then again. Snow could not hear the gun but could see the flash. It was odd. He smelled the distinctive and pleasant odor of the gunfire, and then burning hair.

  The bear’s roar shook Chief Snow to his roots. A roar from hell. He swore later he could feel the hot fetid breath of the bear. The bear wheeled away and ran. Snow emptied his magazine wildly at the scurrying beast. He lowered the gun as the bear disappeared into the snowy horizon, and he passed out.

  Snow came to. He did not know how long he had been out. He awoke shivering, frozen to the bone. He checked himself over, felt his injuries. This is really bad. So stupid. All three of us so manically happy to be alive we forgot about the big bear we just buzzed a few minutes ago. What the hell was the bear doing out and about anyway? And why did it charge? No cubs to protect this time of year.

  It was winter and the brown bears were supposed to be hibernating. Just pure bad luck, plain and simple. Sometimes they would come out in the winter but not for very long. Just bad luck, thought Snow again.

  He struggled to his feet and checked his body. His injuries were painful. His left shoulder felt like it had bled some—his thigh, too. He could tell he was bruised and battered, but he was lucky; with all the clothing he was wearing, his body had not gotten too ripped up. Lucky that the bear did not bite my head, he thought. That was how most people died. When the bear was big enough to get his jaws around their head and bite down, the bear would crush the person’s skull. Such pleasant thoughts I have today, he thought absently, acidly.

  Chief Snow wondered about Chubby and Beans. He imagined that they simply lit out when the bear charged. He wondered how far they got and hoped they made it to the cabin and didn’t get split up from each other.

  Snow wondered if he had shot the bear. He was pretty sure he hit him, but he could not see any blood. It was still snowing, so maybe the blood trail was covered up. A wounded bear was a dangerous bear, so he might return.

  Snow pulled the ripped clothing on his thigh closer. His feet were going numb. His fingers, too. He curled his toes inside his boot, but it was painful. He gingerly took some steps. Got to get moving, keep moving. He walked and limped in the direction he thought Chubby and Beans had been heading, looking for some sign of their trail. He saw what he thought were impressions in the snow but was not sure. There was a lot of bare ice with no sign of tracks. He spotted the bear trail but definitely did not want to go that way. It was now almost dark, and the snow was driving down hard.

  Chief Snow was lost and freezing. His ears had been frostbitten before so were now more susceptible to it, even though he had his hood; they got the familiar burning feeling. He tried not to think about it, but he could not feel his feet. They were like blocks of wood. His feet had been frostbitten mildly before, too, so he was used to the feeling of no feeling.

  He called out for Chubby and Beans, but his voice seemed to evaporate in the snowflakes.

  Snow made it into a stand of scrub pine trees on the lake’s edge. He sat on a small fallen log and decided to smoke. What the hell. He still had his smokes and lighter, a small miracle. Maybe my last smoke, he thought. He was at a loss for what to do. Try to start a fire? If he could find the plane, he could set that on fire. A big, huge hot fire. Nothing to do but go on. Keep moving, don’t stop moving. Except he was so tired. He finished his smoke and wondered if he should just fall asleep there for a while. Is that what happens? he thought. Is this how people freeze to death? They just go to sleep? Not a bad way to go, he supposed, but he was not ready to lay down. Not quite yet. It was a close decision and needed a little more thought.

  Suddenly he heard a voice.

  “Hey, laddie. Come on, now, don’t be giving up.”

  Snow was eye to eye with a strange man, despite the fact that Snow was sitting down. The elfish little fellow had an old-fashioned kerosene lantern, and he instructed Snow to get up and follow him, waving to him. Strange I did not see him coming, thought Snow.

  “Are you with the Coast Guard?” he asked, instantly regretting the stupid remark.

  The little man instead stated that Snow had shot and killed the bear. Well, it was not dead yet but was going to die for certain. It was dying, the little man said. The tiny fellow had an English accent, which somehow fit his bizarre appearance. Snow thought he must be a Native who studied at Oxford or something crazy. Why not? Makes about as much sense as the rest of this day.

  Snow slowly got to his feet. He realized belatedly that he never reloaded his sidearm. For some reason he needed to do it now. He loaded a fresh magazine and slid the gun back into his holster, fumbling with the snap because his fingers were made of stone. He took one step and then another, following the stranger.

  The little man led the way through the scrub pines, alder bushes, and tundra. The trees were very short and sickly in this area. This part of western Alaska was mostly devoid of trees, the large open country covered by grass or tundra and populated by migrating herds of caribou numbering in the tens of thousands. This was the country of brown bears grown enormous on the millions of salmon that plugged every creek and river to spawn. A county so big and open it spoke to the very souls of men.

  The little man led Chief Snow through the pine trees to the south side of a hill. There was a ravine that looked to be made from runoff. Up in the ravine the little man went. A small, very old-looking cabin appeared in front of them. It was hard to see in the dark and snowy night. Snow struggled to make it up the short climb.

  The man opened the door into the one-room cabin, which looked simple and small and dark. The gnomish stranger set his lamp on a crude table made of two-by-fours with an ancient piece of plywood on top. He quickly started a fire in the old barrel stove at the back. Snow sat on a small plywood bunk and watched his host work as the room warmed up. Snow looked around, but there was not much to see—a couple cupboards. He did not bother to look in them; he was bone-tired.

  “What is your name?” Snow asked. He wanted to express his gratitude and really wanted to do so by name.

  The man seemed to ignore Snow as he dug inside his pack. In the dim light of the cabin, Snow noticed that his host was not carry
ing a gun of any kind. His cloak was made of what looked to be stitched wolf hide. Underneath the fur cloak was a finer garment that appeared to be intricately hand-sewn out of tanned caribou hide. The man also wore a pair of the nicest mukluks Snow had ever seen. They looked to have a seal hide on the bottom with sealskin up to his short knees. The clothing looked Native to Snow, but not all from this region. He had only seen comparable clothing on display at a museum or worn during a Native ceremony, such as a feast after the whaling season.

  Snow was musing about these things as the small man turned to address him.

  “You call me Kinka,” he said in his strange accent.

  “I heard that before. Isn’t kinka Yupik for ‘love’?” asked Snow.

  Kinka seemed pleased by Snow’s question—a smile stretched his wide mouth.

  Kinka said, “Aye, my name could indeed mean ‘love’ in Yupik. But it could also mean ‘like,’ ‘benevolence’ or ‘kindness.’ I was given the name of Kinka by tribal members of the Yupik Natives some years ago as sign of favor, or like a tribute from them. Chief Wasillie the elder told me that because I had bestowed kindness to their clan, they would call me Kinka.”

  Snow was intrigued by this information and had questions. But first he needed to say thanks.

  “Kinka, I want to thank you for saving my life. I would have frozen if not for you. I feel bad about killing the bear, though. It was my fault, I suppose, for not paying attention. I’m Chief Snow, from Togiak. Thank you, Kinka. Quyana.” Snow said the last in Yupik. He felt like he might suddenly cry, overcome with emotion.

  Kinka held Snow’s gaze for a few seconds and seemed to take the measure of him before going back to his bag. Snow noticed with interest that Kinka was preparing food—caribou meat, it looked like.

  “That bear came out of its cave a bit early. He was hungry and nearly blind. If you had been paying attention, you could have possibly avoided the bear. But maybe not; hard to be sure. The bear might have smelled you and decided to hunt you down. One thing is sure: your meeting with this bear was destiny.

  “I don’t think ye wanted to kill the bear, but expect ye had no choice, as you are not ready to die. This bear was put into your life for some reason, I think. It is up to you, Chief, to seek the meaning of the bear. And to give thanks for its life. I like yer name, Snow. It fits ye,” Kinka said with a twinkle.

  “My birth mother named me that. So, I was told by my adopted parents,” said Snow. “I’m really not sure about that. I never met my real mom.”

  “Ye should meet her. Ye should know your mother.”

  Snow slumped back and unzipped his coat. He had the sensation of being out of his body. Everything seemed off kilter, but the warm cabin felt like heaven. His fingers were burning and red; he thought that was a good sign. He slowly rubbed his hands together. They were vaguely itchy. His ears and his toes burned, but at least he could feel his feet. Snow untied his boots and removed them, rubbing his feet through his wool socks, but what felt good for his hands hurt his feet.

  His shoulder throbbed and he tried not to move. His legs hurt too. He was in sorry shape as he dozed off.

  He woke up to the smell of food. Kinka was in front of him telling him to sit up. Kinka mischievously tapped Snow’s forehead with a wooden spoon. Snow shrugged off his coat and sat up. During the short nap his shoulder and legs had stiffened up and were aching. Kinka said he wanted to take a look at Snow’s injuries. Snow agreed and stripped off his layers. It was a painful and slow process. He finally got down to the fourth and final layer, his blue T-shirt, and hesitated before taking it off. Snow had always been shy about that sort of thing.

  Snow was down to his skivvies. He had fairly deep wounds above his knee, but they had not bled much. One good thing about the cold—it slowed the bleeding. The wounds were the type that anybody could identify as claw marks.

  Kinka examined Snow’s left shoulder while the chief chewed on caribou meat. Snow was interested to see the damage, too, which amounted to a lot of indentations and several punctures from the bear’s teeth. But there had not been much blood as the punctures were not deep. The indentations were turning dark blue and the general area was very red, boasting an impressive set of claw marks. The main problem was the possibility of infection, a broken bone or some deep bruising.

  “Nothing broken,” Kinka declared.

  “Looks like I’ll have some impressive scars,” Snow said.

  “Seen lots worse,” Kinka said. “Gots a few of me own.”

  Kinka dug into his bag again and extracted some strange items. He took Snow’s T-shirt and wetted it in a wooden bowl of water sitting on the rickety table. Kinka quickly cleaned Snow’s wounds with the water, which also seemed to contain antiseptic. Kinka’s movements were quick and sure.

  “How did you find me?” asked Snow.

  “Was out checkin’ traps. I saw ye fight the bear. I thought ye vood lose!” He spread greenish herbal paste on the gash and deep scratches on Snow’s thigh and put what was left on Snow’s shoulder. Kinka fetched caribou stew from a pot and handed Snow a bowl. There were no eating utensils, so Snow got out his Leatherman. Kinka looked at it with interest and Snow handed it to him.

  “Try it out, Kinka,” Snow said to the little man. As Snow sipped from the bowl, Kinka manipulated the tool with his slender, dexterous brown fingers. Kinka looked bemused as he opened the various implements and blades.

  Snow’s mind felt overwrought by the cataclysmic events of this long day. He was not sure what was real or not, whether to trust his mind and senses. He fished out a chunk of caribou from the broth and chewed it slowly as he watched the miniature, enigmatic man named Kinka, with the odd clothing and accent and mysterious ways, play with his Leatherman in the soft lamplight. Snow could not judge his age; Kinka looked beyond age, as if from another time.

  “Can you tell me why Elder Wasillie gave you the name of Kinka? And what do your people call you?” Snow asked.

  Asking the question, it occurred to him that he was sure Kinka was not a Yupik Eskimo, though he felt sure of nothing else at the moment.

  “When the men in the whaling boats first came to this region, many Natives became sick and died. It was mostly the smallpox. I helped the Natives and the elders to deal with the sickness, death, and grief. It was indeed a very sad time, a difficult time. I think they were grateful for any help. I did little enough,” said Kinka with a far-off look in his eyes. “I have interacted with many people over time and had other names. And I thought Chief Wasillie was a wise man.”

  Snow focused on the way Kinka said “people” like he was not one of them or they were different from him, and he finally understood. Kinka was one of the “Little People.” Snow had heard tales and talk of them but thought them fictional folklore. Now he was sure he was dreaming or dead.

  Kinka continued, “My name means ‘One who is tossed by the wind.’ They call me that because I like to move around; I am a drifter. I learned to speak yer language from a man named Captain Shoemaker, who I met near to here. The captain’s boat had gotten iced in, and they had to stay the winter. The captain had been inland hunting for food when he got separated from his party and lost in a snowstorm. Captain Shoemaker told me he came on the whaling boat from a place called England. He was a good man, and filled with many thoughts and ideas. But not too good out in the wilderness, getting lost like that. He was like yerself, Chief Snow.”

  “What are the Little People, Kinka?” Chief Snow asked, taking a chance. Kinka’s easy answer confirmed Snow’s hunch.

  “We are like ye but not. I guess I would say we are closer to the spirit world, and yer closer to the earth,” said Kinka. “Now ye need to lay back and sleep, recover.”

  Snow felt drugged. He pulled on some clothing and used his lumpy parka as a blanket. He felt warm and good despite the adventurous day, injuries, and nagging feeling of uneasiness, like nothing was as it seemed. He fell into a deep sleep.

  CHAPTER 3

  THE RESCUE
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  Snow woke up. He heard snow crunching under foot and muffled voices growing louder as they approached the cabin, which was dark except for light coming through the chinks in the log walls and under the rough-hewn plank door. The door burst open and in came Trooper Dickron, followed by his partner, Trooper Debbie Roop. Snow was very happy to see them, and they were happy and relieved to find him. Much less paperwork in a successful search than in recovering a dead body or, worse yet, a prolonged search with no conclusion.

  The cabin was still slightly warm, though cooling fast with the door open to a wave of cool fresh air. There was no sign of the mysterious Kinka. The cabin was devoid of any clue he had been there.

  “Where’s the little guy?” Snow asked the troopers.

  “What guy? No one here,” Trooper Dick said.

  “Well, who started the fire? How’d I get here?”

  Snow seemed to be disoriented and talking nonsense.

  “Get dressed. We’re taking you home, Chief.”

  Aching and sore, especially in his leg and shoulder, Snow slipped on his Sam Browne belt with his holster, gun and radio, outer clothing, parka and boots. The troopers fired some questions at him that he did not answer. He pretended to be totally consumed with getting dressed, but his mind was buzzing. Instinctively he decided to be mum concerning Kinka and just give some basic facts about the crash and contact with the bear.

  These two troopers were quite the pair. They were very smart, professional, and all around good cops. But they looked like Mutt and Jeff and could do a pretty good comedy shtick when they were so inclined, which they were clearly warming up to. Trooper Dick, as he was called, was a man of about six foot two. He had probably been quite a physical specimen when younger but had developed an impressively hard paunch. He was still a good-looking and imposing figure, with salt-and-pepper gray peeking out under his big round trooper hat, blue with a gold braid. He could retire whenever he felt the urge. He had at least twenty-five years, most of which was in the bush and could be measured like dog years. Alaskan years took a lot out of you. Trooper Debbie Roop was about a foot shorter and looked like a little sister.