Bear Wood
Rebecca Klassen
June
As I shove my PE skirt into my bag and Mum butters white toast, we hear the rumble and clang of machinery. The workers are erecting a fence around the woods. We look out the kitchen window, over the road that runs through our village, and across the field that slopes up to the trees.
“Well, we can’t go for a picnic there now,” Mum says.
“I’m fourteen. I don’t want to picnic in the woods near our house,” I reply.
“Me neither, but I sort of want to now that we can’t.”
The yellow laminated sign announcing the closure of the woods for the construction of a wildlife reserve is tied to the bus stop where I catch the 823 to school. I haven’t read the sign because reading means putting on my glasses. I only know some of what it says because I heard Leanna reading it aloud. She pronounced “existing” as “exiting.” Then she stuck gum in my hair, and I had to cut it out with scissors from the art department.
I tell Mum that closing the woods to construct a wildlife reserve seems pointless.
“I agree, love. They can’t see the woods for the trees.” We watch the workmen, busy like fluorescent ants, as we eat the toast over the sink.
When I walk to the bus stop, I slow down to listen to Greyhound Man. He’s yelling at a worker in a hi-vis vest who’s blocking up the stile to the field with chain-link mesh. The greyhound whines and paws at the dog door, but the worker ignores them both, firing a heavy staple into the posts to secure the mesh, lashing it with zip ties. People have stepped into their front gardens to gawk.
I’ve heard that greyhound and other dogs from my bedroom window in the early morning hours, feet pounding across the grass, barks rising in the dawn. I know that rabbits squeal like piglets when they’re scared.
“Where are we supposed to walk our dogs now?” Greyhound Man shouts in that way people do to gain support from bystanders. He gestures to the gawkers. Mum often describes Greyhound Man as “dishy,” which makes me cringe. He’s not old, and he dresses nicely. I don’t like the look of his scratchy beard.
The worker puts the staple gun down and straightens. “You’re in the countryside, mate. I’m sure you’ll find somewhere.” He produces a hammer and nails the dog door shut.
“Bloody ridiculous.” Greyhound Man looks at the onlookers again, then at me. His smile sticks to me like an old web tangled with dead flies. In my blazer pocket, I give him the finger.
I continue to the bus stop and think about the picnic Mum said she wanted in the woods. I imagine us trekking over the field, lugging a French stick and sweaty cheese as we try to ignore the smell of dog turds and festering rabbit carcasses. We’d see the ashes from the fires Leanna sits around with other kids from our year. I’ve heard them laughing as they’ve gone over the stile and seen the glow among the trees.
Nature seems so much more appealing in books. You can read about glistening dew drops without getting your ankles wet or a buzzing bee without having to swat it away.
The bus stop is in the center of the village, outside the convenience shop and the estate agents. It’s already busy with blazered kids squeezed together under the shelter, looking at phones. A couple of girls stare into the estate agent’s window, and some boys are kicking an old banana peel at each other. Leanna is on the shelter bench. Since the gum incident, I wait in the shop and look at the magazines till the bus comes. Mr. Humpage doesn’t mind. The rack is right by the window, so when the bus arrives I join the back of the queue.
I sneak my specs on to read the front pages on the rack. I actually like my glasses. They’re cornflower blue, and I look like Adrian from Rocky. Running my thumb along the stump of bristles where I had to cut the gum free, I read the headline A Fox Tried to Eat My Baby as the bus pulls up. Mr. Humpage waves as I slowly make my way outside. Leanna is one of the first to get on, so I safely join the queue, right next to the yellow laminated sign. There’s jargon about a large-scale development to be completed in the woods. Then a sentence catches my eye.
The conservation of flora and fauna species from North America will be contained within the development for public viewing.
“Is it a zoo?” I say out loud.
The girl in front of me turns. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You look like an alien.”
I pull my glasses off, grateful as I stuff them into my bag that Leanna didn’t see me in them.
March
“What have you got planned today?” Mum asks, looking out the kitchen window at the early morning drizzle.
“Working on my comic,” I say, sitting at the table.
When my form tutor suggested at parents’ evening that I “spend less time doodling and more time on Maths and French,” Mum told her she was “being a pillock.” I told Mum off afterwards for being rude, and she bought me some fancy pens from Japan.
“Make sure you let me read it when it’s finished.”
Mum grabs her bag from the kitchen table and kisses the top of my head. She stops at the door. “Do you want to go to Beary Wild when it opens?”
A leaflet came through our door yesterday with a discount voucher for locals. On the front is a picture of a grizzly bear, presumably in our woods, its head turned, giving a profile view. Its mouth is closed and smiling. I googled whether bears can smile, suspecting the picture had been photoshopped. Apparently, they can smile and even purr with happiness like a cat.
“Do you want to go?” I ask Mum.
“Might as well. They did invite us.”
“They sent us a voucher. We don’t have to go.”
“I feel obliged,” she says with a shrug. “See you at four.” She closes the door, and the sound feels like a full stop. I’m not scared to be alone, especially at home; I just prefer an adult to be around because Leanna leaves me alone then. She doesn’t know where I live, so I guess it doesn’t matter, but I just feel on edge.
After a morning of drawing, I open the bread bin at lunchtime. One slice and one end piece left, both spotted with green. I grab some coins from the change tin and head to the shop with my hood up against the wet.
Mr. Humpage asks whether we’re going to visit Beary Wild. He looks excited, so I say yes.
“I’m going on opening day,” he says. “Isn’t it exciting to think that bears live less than a mile from us? A great creature that could tear you limb from limb.”
I hadn’t thought of that.
I pay and leave. The drizzle has turned to rain, so I tighten my anorak hood. Sheltering at the bus stop and wiping my glasses, I take my phone from my pocket and google bears climbing trees. Fluffy cubs work their way up a trunk, their little bodies curving back and forth as they reach up. They’re so cute! I must draw one when I get home.
The next video shows a man standing on a jutting rock that overlooks a cluster of leafless trees. He’s holding a rifle as casually as I hold my loaf. A black bear leaps from the straw-like grass and bounds up a trunk. The man with the gun says something in a movie-like drawl and raises his gun. I close the video.
There’s laughter from down the road. Leanna and three other girls from our year are walking towards the shop, huddled under one bright red umbrella. One of them points at me, and they all confer. I pocket my phone and glasses and walk quickly towards home, muttering, “Damn, damn, damn.” They’re probably going to the shop, so surely, they’ll just go inside and leave me alone.
Risking a look behind me, I see they’ve passed the shop and are following me, laughing. I keep going. Perhaps they’ll turn off somewhere.
Soon there are no other places to turn off, and their laughter gets closer. I can’t go home, or they’ll know where I live. I’m almost level with the field and stile, still cordoned off with the chain-link mesh. There’s a laminated sign on the fence now, but I can’t read it from here without my specs.
They mustn’t know where I live.
I dash across the road and hear tires squeal on wet concrete. When I get to the stile fence, I look back. Greyhound Man is getting out of his shiny Land Rover, looking crosser than when he yelled at the man in hi-vis. The girls stand on the other side of the road, screeching and cackling. Greyhound Man starts towards me.
“Oi! You just nearly sent my dog through the windscreen, you stupid twerp!”
The greyhound is at the passenger window, greasy smears rainbowing across the glass. I propel the loaf into the field. It somersaults, and I start climbing the mesh before I can see where it lands. The stile aids the start of my climb. My hands tremble as I grip the wire. I pass the sign. No Trespassing: DO NOT ENTER.
The cubs made climbing look easier than this. As I go over the top into the field, Greyhound Man is right up close, reaching for the fence.
“What are you doing?” He still sounds furious. “Don’t go in there, you idiot!” His teeth look fierce like an animal’s, canines prominent.
I start running across the field towards the woods, Leanna and her crew still laughing. The grass is long, the top of the blades swishing and whipping against my anorak. My damp socks cling to my feet, the coolness refreshing as my head thumps with heat. A bug flies into my mouth, and I spit as I run. Looking back, Greyhound Man is standing by his Land Rover, holding a phone to his ear. The red umbrella is next to him.
I slow down against the steep gradient. Soon, I’m a few feet from the fence I saw the workers erecting around the woods last year. The metal is a natural green, and the spacing between each post isn’t uniform. It looks organic, like it sprang up from the ground. I stop, put on my rain-speckled glasses, and look back towards the stile. There’s no red umbrella. A bus trundles down the road, indicating that the Land Rover has moved on. Maybe he’s called the police. I should go home.
The village looks different from up here. Even with a grey sky, it looks quaint and inviting, the kind of place that would have log-filled fireplaces, gardens of bright flowers, and milk bottles on doorsteps. We have a gas fire, a lawn of daisies, and milk in plastic cartons from Mr. Humpage’s shop.
Something snorts behind me.
It’s bigger than the bear I saw in the video. Its barrel body hangs off its bridge-like shoulders. Pinprick raindrops glint on furry tufts streaked black and brown. Exertive breaths escape its open mouth as if every step is an effort; it must be with such a bulk. I imagine its skull beneath its fur, bigger than a microwave. Its nose studies the ground as it meanders in my direction. One eye stays fixed on me like a magnet. Twigs split under its dinner-plate paws like pencils snapping in a vice.
The woods feel different. No more campfires and empty spirit bottles. No dog leavings tied up in small black bags and hung on branches like sordid Christmas decorations. This is now the grizzly’s domain.
The bear stops and looks at me, and I wonder how sturdy the fence is. It sniffs the air and trudges closer, so I step back. Its nose, like an enormous dog’s, examines the metal.
I run. My legs windmill like they did when I was five, and the slope tips me towards home. I know the immense bear couldn’t possibly fit through the fence, and even if it had, it wouldn’t want me. I would taste too anoraky.
The laminated sign that told me to keep out catches the breeze and slaps my cheek before I drop back onto the road. Thankfully, there are no cars, no Leanna or Greyhound Man. There’s no one. Taking a few deep breaths, I don’t look back at the woods as I head home. I was a trespasser, and I don’t want Mum to know.
She’s not back when I get in. I put on dry joggers and shove chicken nuggets and potato waffles into the oven. Getting out my pens, I think about the cubs in the video and how they’d grow to become cumbersome and intimidating. I sketch out some ideas of a cub putting on a harness and helmet, too scared to free climb like her siblings. When Mum comes in, she looks over my shoulder.
“New comic additions?” Mum asks, seeing me slip them away.
“Sort of.”
She kisses my forehead and goes to the bread bin. “Damn, I thought we had some bread left.”
“It was moldy. I bought a new loaf.” I remember launching the bread into the field. It’s still there, soaked, ants looking for a way in.
“Where is it?” she asks.
“I must’ve left it in the shop.”
“At Mr. Humpage’s? I’ll go get it.”
I don’t lie to Mum, except to save her feelings. Then again, I’ve never done anything bad before.
There’s a knock at the front door. Mum leaves the kitchen to answer it. I overhear conversation snippets. Report of trespassing. Residents must not enter the field. There are bears in the woods now. Traffic will be murder on opening day next week.
When Mum comes back, she picks up her bag and starts to leave.
“Who was that?” I ask. Why did I ask?
“A community officer. Someone’s been in the field.” She points out the window.
“Probably Leanna and her crew,” I say, shrugging.
“Maybe. Funny, the officer said it looked like the culprit was going to feed bread to the bears.”
“Really?”
“Really. It’s dangerous in the field now.” Mum stares at me.
“I’ll never go there.” I remember the bear’s nose poking through the metal. I want to tell her I saw a huge bear and how close it got to me, but I know I can’t say anything.
“Good” She lingers for a moment, looking at the pile of cub drawings. “I’ll go get a new loaf.”
July
I don’t know why Mum took the day off work for Beary Wild opening day; the voucher they sent us lasts for six months. It’s the start of the summer holidays, so it’s hot, and the queue to get in snakes back to the car park. We drove because, even though we live close by, it’s too dangerous to walk along the country lanes, especially now they’re so busy.
Mum reads the leaflet they sent us, her shoulders turning pink in the sun as we finally enter the park.
“They do a lot for conservation here, you know. They’ve got giraffes, wolverines, mountain zebras, and grey wolves.”
“I’m sure a giraffe would prefer the African savanna to here.”
“It’s sunny now, isn’t it? Don’t poke holes.” She accepts a plastic headband with bear ears on it from a woman in a zebra costume. Mum puts her headband on and grabs one for me, which I stuff in my back pocket. The scents of hot doughnuts and vinegared chips fill the air. Mum insists we head straight to Bear Wood.
The walkway weaves high up through the tree trunks. It’s crammed with families dealing with discontented children. Teens have their faces in phones while parents try to get their attention. Toddlers protest plank at being put in a buggy. A boy carrying a tray of chips walks past and trips over his loose shoelace, his chips firing at the crowd. Warm vinegar soaks the floorboards and stings my nose.
The woods were peaceful last year before the workers came. Mum seems oblivious to the mayhem, looking out into the trees.
“You can see our house! No bears, though.”
“If you were a bear, would you want to come out to this? It’s chaos.”
“Are you going to be like this all day?” It’s hard to take her seriously with the bear ears on.
I spot Greyhound Man, hard to recognize at first without his greyhound. When I see who’s next to him, I sidestep behind Mum. It’s Leanna, standing with Greyhound Man. His hand momentarily slips to the small of Leanna’s back, which is bare from her crop top. His thumb gives a couple of strokes, and he whispers something in her ear. Mum spots them and tugs my elbow.
“Let’s get some doughnuts and go home.”
October
One newsreader said it would be Britain’s worst storm since 1987. Another said it was set to be Britain’s worst storm ever.
“You can sleep in my room if you like?” she asks. My room overlooks the field. The wind gathers speed across it before battering into our house.
“I’ll be all right,” I say, enjoying the howling wind and the possibility of a greenhouse window smashing, next door’s birdbath falling and cracking into fragments, or the road flooding from the lashing rain.
I kneel on my bed and lean on my windowsill, watching the rain billowing in the glow of the lampposts. I think about the bear in the woods that everyone seems to have forgotten about since summer, the hordes of cars and sickening smells long gone. The squalls won’t stand a chance at tipping its bulky body.
An hour goes by, and the storm persists. I haven’t heard any destruction the newsreaders promised. I lie down, disappointed.
Later, I finally hear a car, and I look out the window. The storm is much quieter, though it’s still raining. It’s Greyhound Man’s Land Rover, slowly driving along the road at 3 a.m., music thumping. The car turns up the little lane that runs parallel to the field. The headlights stop behind the tall hedgerows that block it from sight. Then the lights cut out. I watch for a while, but sleep tugs my eyelids. I dream about the bear and the storm fighting, the bear swinging its claws, and the wind taking swipes.
A banging wakes me. It’s still dark, and my clock says 6 a.m. The knocking at the door persists, so Mum and I go downstairs together and open it. Mum doesn’t know Leanna.
“Come in! Why’re you out in this?”
Soon, Leanna stands, dripping on our kitchen floor. Mum gets a towel, wraps it around Leanna’s shoulders, and leads her to the kitchen table. Leanna’s mascara is smudged, and her blonde hair hangs in twisted tendrils. She’s shivering and won’t look me in the eye. She knows where I live. This is a disaster.
“He didn’t come back,” she says, her teeth chattering. “He went for a pee in the field. I went to the stile and looked through the fence. I couldn’t see him. I was gonna go home, but the storm is so bad.”
Mum looks confused, but she just pats Leanna’s shoulder. “I’ll get you the phone. You should probably ring the police if your friend’s missing.”
December
Mum sends me to Mr. Humpage’s for some milk, even though we’ve just done a Christmas shop at the big Morrisons in town. We always forget something. It’s dark, even though it’s only half-four. The solar fairy lights threaded around the stile haven’t had enough sun to twinkle, and the bunches of flowers wrapped in pastel-coloured cellophane are sodden from the morning frost. The fences have all gone. So have the bears. A tree came down in the storm, crushing the wire, and one of the bears got curious, smelling Greyhound Man’s pee. After the accident, they were taken to a wildlife sanctuary in California.
When I get back from Mr. Humpage’s, I go upstairs to work on my comic. The pictures I drew of the cub falls out from the back of the notebook. I pick them up and look at the pretty cub in her harness, too scared to climb. Without screwing them up, I drop them into the bin.
Rebecca Klassen
June
As I shove my PE skirt into my bag and Mum butters white toast, we hear the rumble and clang of machinery. The workers are erecting a fence around the woods. We look out the kitchen window, over the road that runs through our village, and across the field that slopes up to the trees.
“Well, we can’t go for a picnic there now,” Mum says.
“I’m fourteen. I don’t want to picnic in the woods near our house,” I reply.
“Me neither, but I sort of want to now that we can’t.”
The yellow laminated sign announcing the closure of the woods for the construction of a wildlife reserve is tied to the bus stop where I catch the 823 to school. I haven’t read the sign because reading means putting on my glasses. I only know some of what it says because I heard Leanna reading it aloud. She pronounced “existing” as “exiting.” Then she stuck gum in my hair, and I had to cut it out with scissors from the art department.
I tell Mum that closing the woods to construct a wildlife reserve seems pointless.
“I agree, love. They can’t see the woods for the trees.” We watch the workmen, busy like fluorescent ants, as we eat the toast over the sink.
When I walk to the bus stop, I slow down to listen to Greyhound Man. He’s yelling at a worker in a hi-vis vest who’s blocking up the stile to the field with chain-link mesh. The greyhound whines and paws at the dog door, but the worker ignores them both, firing a heavy staple into the posts to secure the mesh, lashing it with zip ties. People have stepped into their front gardens to gawk.
I’ve heard that greyhound and other dogs from my bedroom window in the early morning hours, feet pounding across the grass, barks rising in the dawn. I know that rabbits squeal like piglets when they’re scared.
“Where are we supposed to walk our dogs now?” Greyhound Man shouts in that way people do to gain support from bystanders. He gestures to the gawkers. Mum often describes Greyhound Man as “dishy,” which makes me cringe. He’s not old, and he dresses nicely. I don’t like the look of his scratchy beard.
The worker puts the staple gun down and straightens. “You’re in the countryside, mate. I’m sure you’ll find somewhere.” He produces a hammer and nails the dog door shut.
“Bloody ridiculous.” Greyhound Man looks at the onlookers again, then at me. His smile sticks to me like an old web tangled with dead flies. In my blazer pocket, I give him the finger.
I continue to the bus stop and think about the picnic Mum said she wanted in the woods. I imagine us trekking over the field, lugging a French stick and sweaty cheese as we try to ignore the smell of dog turds and festering rabbit carcasses. We’d see the ashes from the fires Leanna sits around with other kids from our year. I’ve heard them laughing as they’ve gone over the stile and seen the glow among the trees.
Nature seems so much more appealing in books. You can read about glistening dew drops without getting your ankles wet or a buzzing bee without having to swat it away.
The bus stop is in the center of the village, outside the convenience shop and the estate agents. It’s already busy with blazered kids squeezed together under the shelter, looking at phones. A couple of girls stare into the estate agent’s window, and some boys are kicking an old banana peel at each other. Leanna is on the shelter bench. Since the gum incident, I wait in the shop and look at the magazines till the bus comes. Mr. Humpage doesn’t mind. The rack is right by the window, so when the bus arrives I join the back of the queue.
I sneak my specs on to read the front pages on the rack. I actually like my glasses. They’re cornflower blue, and I look like Adrian from Rocky. Running my thumb along the stump of bristles where I had to cut the gum free, I read the headline A Fox Tried to Eat My Baby as the bus pulls up. Mr. Humpage waves as I slowly make my way outside. Leanna is one of the first to get on, so I safely join the queue, right next to the yellow laminated sign. There’s jargon about a large-scale development to be completed in the woods. Then a sentence catches my eye.
The conservation of flora and fauna species from North America will be contained within the development for public viewing.
“Is it a zoo?” I say out loud.
The girl in front of me turns. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You look like an alien.”
I pull my glasses off, grateful as I stuff them into my bag that Leanna didn’t see me in them.
March
“What have you got planned today?” Mum asks, looking out the kitchen window at the early morning drizzle.
“Working on my comic,” I say, sitting at the table.
When my form tutor suggested at parents’ evening that I “spend less time doodling and more time on Maths and French,” Mum told her she was “being a pillock.” I told Mum off afterwards for being rude, and she bought me some fancy pens from Japan.
“Make sure you let me read it when it’s finished.”
Mum grabs her bag from the kitchen table and kisses the top of my head. She stops at the door. “Do you want to go to Beary Wild when it opens?”
A leaflet came through our door yesterday with a discount voucher for locals. On the front is a picture of a grizzly bear, presumably in our woods, its head turned, giving a profile view. Its mouth is closed and smiling. I googled whether bears can smile, suspecting the picture had been photoshopped. Apparently, they can smile and even purr with happiness like a cat.
“Do you want to go?” I ask Mum.
“Might as well. They did invite us.”
“They sent us a voucher. We don’t have to go.”
“I feel obliged,” she says with a shrug. “See you at four.” She closes the door, and the sound feels like a full stop. I’m not scared to be alone, especially at home; I just prefer an adult to be around because Leanna leaves me alone then. She doesn’t know where I live, so I guess it doesn’t matter, but I just feel on edge.
After a morning of drawing, I open the bread bin at lunchtime. One slice and one end piece left, both spotted with green. I grab some coins from the change tin and head to the shop with my hood up against the wet.
Mr. Humpage asks whether we’re going to visit Beary Wild. He looks excited, so I say yes.
“I’m going on opening day,” he says. “Isn’t it exciting to think that bears live less than a mile from us? A great creature that could tear you limb from limb.”
I hadn’t thought of that.
I pay and leave. The drizzle has turned to rain, so I tighten my anorak hood. Sheltering at the bus stop and wiping my glasses, I take my phone from my pocket and google bears climbing trees. Fluffy cubs work their way up a trunk, their little bodies curving back and forth as they reach up. They’re so cute! I must draw one when I get home.
The next video shows a man standing on a jutting rock that overlooks a cluster of leafless trees. He’s holding a rifle as casually as I hold my loaf. A black bear leaps from the straw-like grass and bounds up a trunk. The man with the gun says something in a movie-like drawl and raises his gun. I close the video.
There’s laughter from down the road. Leanna and three other girls from our year are walking towards the shop, huddled under one bright red umbrella. One of them points at me, and they all confer. I pocket my phone and glasses and walk quickly towards home, muttering, “Damn, damn, damn.” They’re probably going to the shop, so surely, they’ll just go inside and leave me alone.
Risking a look behind me, I see they’ve passed the shop and are following me, laughing. I keep going. Perhaps they’ll turn off somewhere.
Soon there are no other places to turn off, and their laughter gets closer. I can’t go home, or they’ll know where I live. I’m almost level with the field and stile, still cordoned off with the chain-link mesh. There’s a laminated sign on the fence now, but I can’t read it from here without my specs.
They mustn’t know where I live.
I dash across the road and hear tires squeal on wet concrete. When I get to the stile fence, I look back. Greyhound Man is getting out of his shiny Land Rover, looking crosser than when he yelled at the man in hi-vis. The girls stand on the other side of the road, screeching and cackling. Greyhound Man starts towards me.
“Oi! You just nearly sent my dog through the windscreen, you stupid twerp!”
The greyhound is at the passenger window, greasy smears rainbowing across the glass. I propel the loaf into the field. It somersaults, and I start climbing the mesh before I can see where it lands. The stile aids the start of my climb. My hands tremble as I grip the wire. I pass the sign. No Trespassing: DO NOT ENTER.
The cubs made climbing look easier than this. As I go over the top into the field, Greyhound Man is right up close, reaching for the fence.
“What are you doing?” He still sounds furious. “Don’t go in there, you idiot!” His teeth look fierce like an animal’s, canines prominent.
I start running across the field towards the woods, Leanna and her crew still laughing. The grass is long, the top of the blades swishing and whipping against my anorak. My damp socks cling to my feet, the coolness refreshing as my head thumps with heat. A bug flies into my mouth, and I spit as I run. Looking back, Greyhound Man is standing by his Land Rover, holding a phone to his ear. The red umbrella is next to him.
I slow down against the steep gradient. Soon, I’m a few feet from the fence I saw the workers erecting around the woods last year. The metal is a natural green, and the spacing between each post isn’t uniform. It looks organic, like it sprang up from the ground. I stop, put on my rain-speckled glasses, and look back towards the stile. There’s no red umbrella. A bus trundles down the road, indicating that the Land Rover has moved on. Maybe he’s called the police. I should go home.
The village looks different from up here. Even with a grey sky, it looks quaint and inviting, the kind of place that would have log-filled fireplaces, gardens of bright flowers, and milk bottles on doorsteps. We have a gas fire, a lawn of daisies, and milk in plastic cartons from Mr. Humpage’s shop.
Something snorts behind me.
It’s bigger than the bear I saw in the video. Its barrel body hangs off its bridge-like shoulders. Pinprick raindrops glint on furry tufts streaked black and brown. Exertive breaths escape its open mouth as if every step is an effort; it must be with such a bulk. I imagine its skull beneath its fur, bigger than a microwave. Its nose studies the ground as it meanders in my direction. One eye stays fixed on me like a magnet. Twigs split under its dinner-plate paws like pencils snapping in a vice.
The woods feel different. No more campfires and empty spirit bottles. No dog leavings tied up in small black bags and hung on branches like sordid Christmas decorations. This is now the grizzly’s domain.
The bear stops and looks at me, and I wonder how sturdy the fence is. It sniffs the air and trudges closer, so I step back. Its nose, like an enormous dog’s, examines the metal.
I run. My legs windmill like they did when I was five, and the slope tips me towards home. I know the immense bear couldn’t possibly fit through the fence, and even if it had, it wouldn’t want me. I would taste too anoraky.
The laminated sign that told me to keep out catches the breeze and slaps my cheek before I drop back onto the road. Thankfully, there are no cars, no Leanna or Greyhound Man. There’s no one. Taking a few deep breaths, I don’t look back at the woods as I head home. I was a trespasser, and I don’t want Mum to know.
She’s not back when I get in. I put on dry joggers and shove chicken nuggets and potato waffles into the oven. Getting out my pens, I think about the cubs in the video and how they’d grow to become cumbersome and intimidating. I sketch out some ideas of a cub putting on a harness and helmet, too scared to free climb like her siblings. When Mum comes in, she looks over my shoulder.
“New comic additions?” Mum asks, seeing me slip them away.
“Sort of.”
She kisses my forehead and goes to the bread bin. “Damn, I thought we had some bread left.”
“It was moldy. I bought a new loaf.” I remember launching the bread into the field. It’s still there, soaked, ants looking for a way in.
“Where is it?” she asks.
“I must’ve left it in the shop.”
“At Mr. Humpage’s? I’ll go get it.”
I don’t lie to Mum, except to save her feelings. Then again, I’ve never done anything bad before.
There’s a knock at the front door. Mum leaves the kitchen to answer it. I overhear conversation snippets. Report of trespassing. Residents must not enter the field. There are bears in the woods now. Traffic will be murder on opening day next week.
When Mum comes back, she picks up her bag and starts to leave.
“Who was that?” I ask. Why did I ask?
“A community officer. Someone’s been in the field.” She points out the window.
“Probably Leanna and her crew,” I say, shrugging.
“Maybe. Funny, the officer said it looked like the culprit was going to feed bread to the bears.”
“Really?”
“Really. It’s dangerous in the field now.” Mum stares at me.
“I’ll never go there.” I remember the bear’s nose poking through the metal. I want to tell her I saw a huge bear and how close it got to me, but I know I can’t say anything.
“Good” She lingers for a moment, looking at the pile of cub drawings. “I’ll go get a new loaf.”
July
I don’t know why Mum took the day off work for Beary Wild opening day; the voucher they sent us lasts for six months. It’s the start of the summer holidays, so it’s hot, and the queue to get in snakes back to the car park. We drove because, even though we live close by, it’s too dangerous to walk along the country lanes, especially now they’re so busy.
Mum reads the leaflet they sent us, her shoulders turning pink in the sun as we finally enter the park.
“They do a lot for conservation here, you know. They’ve got giraffes, wolverines, mountain zebras, and grey wolves.”
“I’m sure a giraffe would prefer the African savanna to here.”
“It’s sunny now, isn’t it? Don’t poke holes.” She accepts a plastic headband with bear ears on it from a woman in a zebra costume. Mum puts her headband on and grabs one for me, which I stuff in my back pocket. The scents of hot doughnuts and vinegared chips fill the air. Mum insists we head straight to Bear Wood.
The walkway weaves high up through the tree trunks. It’s crammed with families dealing with discontented children. Teens have their faces in phones while parents try to get their attention. Toddlers protest plank at being put in a buggy. A boy carrying a tray of chips walks past and trips over his loose shoelace, his chips firing at the crowd. Warm vinegar soaks the floorboards and stings my nose.
The woods were peaceful last year before the workers came. Mum seems oblivious to the mayhem, looking out into the trees.
“You can see our house! No bears, though.”
“If you were a bear, would you want to come out to this? It’s chaos.”
“Are you going to be like this all day?” It’s hard to take her seriously with the bear ears on.
I spot Greyhound Man, hard to recognize at first without his greyhound. When I see who’s next to him, I sidestep behind Mum. It’s Leanna, standing with Greyhound Man. His hand momentarily slips to the small of Leanna’s back, which is bare from her crop top. His thumb gives a couple of strokes, and he whispers something in her ear. Mum spots them and tugs my elbow.
“Let’s get some doughnuts and go home.”
October
One newsreader said it would be Britain’s worst storm since 1987. Another said it was set to be Britain’s worst storm ever.
“You can sleep in my room if you like?” she asks. My room overlooks the field. The wind gathers speed across it before battering into our house.
“I’ll be all right,” I say, enjoying the howling wind and the possibility of a greenhouse window smashing, next door’s birdbath falling and cracking into fragments, or the road flooding from the lashing rain.
I kneel on my bed and lean on my windowsill, watching the rain billowing in the glow of the lampposts. I think about the bear in the woods that everyone seems to have forgotten about since summer, the hordes of cars and sickening smells long gone. The squalls won’t stand a chance at tipping its bulky body.
An hour goes by, and the storm persists. I haven’t heard any destruction the newsreaders promised. I lie down, disappointed.
Later, I finally hear a car, and I look out the window. The storm is much quieter, though it’s still raining. It’s Greyhound Man’s Land Rover, slowly driving along the road at 3 a.m., music thumping. The car turns up the little lane that runs parallel to the field. The headlights stop behind the tall hedgerows that block it from sight. Then the lights cut out. I watch for a while, but sleep tugs my eyelids. I dream about the bear and the storm fighting, the bear swinging its claws, and the wind taking swipes.
A banging wakes me. It’s still dark, and my clock says 6 a.m. The knocking at the door persists, so Mum and I go downstairs together and open it. Mum doesn’t know Leanna.
“Come in! Why’re you out in this?”
Soon, Leanna stands, dripping on our kitchen floor. Mum gets a towel, wraps it around Leanna’s shoulders, and leads her to the kitchen table. Leanna’s mascara is smudged, and her blonde hair hangs in twisted tendrils. She’s shivering and won’t look me in the eye. She knows where I live. This is a disaster.
“He didn’t come back,” she says, her teeth chattering. “He went for a pee in the field. I went to the stile and looked through the fence. I couldn’t see him. I was gonna go home, but the storm is so bad.”
Mum looks confused, but she just pats Leanna’s shoulder. “I’ll get you the phone. You should probably ring the police if your friend’s missing.”
December
Mum sends me to Mr. Humpage’s for some milk, even though we’ve just done a Christmas shop at the big Morrisons in town. We always forget something. It’s dark, even though it’s only half-four. The solar fairy lights threaded around the stile haven’t had enough sun to twinkle, and the bunches of flowers wrapped in pastel-coloured cellophane are sodden from the morning frost. The fences have all gone. So have the bears. A tree came down in the storm, crushing the wire, and one of the bears got curious, smelling Greyhound Man’s pee. After the accident, they were taken to a wildlife sanctuary in California.
When I get back from Mr. Humpage’s, I go upstairs to work on my comic. The pictures I drew of the cub falls out from the back of the notebook. I pick them up and look at the pretty cub in her harness, too scared to climb. Without screwing them up, I drop them into the bin.