Orson Furbear (English version)

By Christiane-Rita Moodie

In this extraordinary and sometimes bizarre tale, Orson Furbear, who has suffered the devastating loss of his family, loses most of his memory and mind. A she-bear and her cubs give him new meaning and purpose for a while until his life is shattered by a fight with a male bear which leaves him maimed and dying. His human friends come to his aid and the unrequited love of Beatrice and the kindness of her husband help him survive. But, it is this very brush with death and his unorthodox re-birth that lead inexorably to the strange and sometimes shocking dénouement of this story of loss, restoration and redemption.
Written in the sumptuous and sensuous prose of a poet, wordsmith CR Moodie has created a love story with a difference. A wife and twin daughters lost in a terrible fire, a woman who is another man’s wife, and, a she-bear with her cubs, all these make Orson what he is – a fabulous (in the original sense of the word) man who has straddled the world of man and beast and reconciled them. Orson Furbear is a plea for the conservation of bears and all of creation, a poignant cry for those who have no voice of their own.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian-Yves Georges
• Release date: Aug 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311892522

Book preview

Orson Furbear

by

Christiane-Rita Moodie

For the bears and the people who love them.

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Published by Christian-Yves Georges

On SMASHWORDS

Copyright © 2014 Christian-Yves Georges

Book cover watercolour and ink

By: Stuart Moodie

© Christiane-Rita Moodie 2014

This book is the copyrighted property of the a author and may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed for any commercial or non-commercial use without permission from the publisher. Quotes used in reviews are the exception. No alteration of content is allowed.

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Other short stories and novels by Christiane-Rita Moodie in both English and French are available for purchase from SMASHWORDS.

Book 1 – The Promise

‘Tis but a philosophical tale

A simple love story’

William Shakespeare

Chapter 1

The Shepherd’s star was in the sky when Orson came face to face with the bear. The hair at the back of his neck, right down to the tuft at the end of his spine, rose like hackles in a shiver that spread from his buttocks to his massive shoulders. The acrid scent of his own fear invaded his nostrils through the opening of his coarse shirt. The bear swung its head in a slow wide arc, and a grunt of annoyance came from deep in its throat. Not a threat but a warning. The bear was coming down the same steep path Orson climbed everyday to reach his cabin. Suddenly the familiar narrow path became a highway to danger, a shadowy corner of earth where there was no room for polite gestures. They had never met before and during that agonizing silent challenge they looked at each other long and hard. The beast had golden eyes and deep dark pupils that seemed to reflect the trees above, the grass below. Orson fancied that he could have shaved looking at himself in those eyes.

The bear swung its head to the right once more, and stood up with an effortless movement as smooth as an athlete’s spring; Orson’s mouth dried right down to his gullet. The bear must have been six feet in its stocking-soles. A well fed bear with a lustrous hide – the thick fur, groomed to a glossy dark chestnut, covered the feet and the paws like a rich garment. The claws shone like polished ebony. Even in his fear Orson couldn’t help admiring the beast. There he was, at the mercy of a wild animal on it natural territory, at dusk, unarmed. He had left his gun propped against the cabin before going to the stream and somehow he was glad; he didn’t know why. Slowly, in a gesture of peace offering, he lifted his arm shoulder high, in his hand he held two trout threaded on a reed. The fish glinted in the rays of the lowering sun.

‘It will be my pleasure to offer you my supper, Sir. See, two perfectly fresh trout from the stream below, for you, if you wish,’ he said politely. The words rustled out, thin, like a dry reed, unlike his former rich voice.

The bear didn't move. They both stood – a few feet apart. He, a burly, hairy woodcutter, and the bear, strangely manlike and regal in its quiet strength. The bear began to waddle on its back legs towards the man; Orson saw then that it was a she-bear – her belly was rounded and in the two rows of brown buttons only her top breasts were evident. Like a young girl’s breasts.

‘My Lady!’ he apologised with a humble reverence.

He made himself as small and as flat as his bulk would allow, pressed his back hard against the bank and tried not to think of anything. The bear went back on all fours, trotted past him, ignoring the fish, pretending he wasn’t there. The fur of the animal rubbed Orson’s legs; he stopped breathing in fear. Then, the earthy smell of the bear enveloped him; he was bathed in her musky scent. The disturbed air around him carried their mixed effluvia – something like a strong perfume born from their mingled exhalations. It reached him like a spicy vapour, maybe like strange olfactory signals he perceived as new feelings. He breathed in deeply, afraid no longer, he was in awe. The she-bear could have shouldered him down the ravine, torn his head off and cracked his thigh bones like rock sugar, but she let him be; he saw peace in her golden eyes. Their two bodies touched, then it was over, they were apart. She trotted another five yards, stopped again, and turned around.

‘That's me done for now,’ whispered Orson to himself, ‘no need to run, she’ll gather some anger, change her mind and charge. I’ll be dead soon, they won’t even have to bury me; they may find my boots some day, no more trout at tea-time for me.’

In a defiant gesture, he offered the fish again.

The bear stood up and all her pelt vibrated and pulsated in the upward movement. The last sun was behind her, a descending orange fire that set the forest aflame. In the glow her fur glistened like an aura and the cloud of midges around her head danced like wings of gold. It was like the apparition of a mythical beast, an image of lights and shadows that imprinted itself at the back of his dazzled eyes. Orson squinted to see better. It lasted only a moment, but for Orson, the forest stopped breathing and the sun floated still while he fell under the spell – overwhelmed, beguiled. The she-bear growled softly, a series of grunts, like unknown words, like a strange language. In a last gesture she brought her two front paws down and cradled her belly the way a pregnant woman does. The claws on her hands were long and sharp but it was a tender embrace.

Orson took off his hat. Strangely moved, he saluted her.

Thereafter, they met on odd occasions, always at a safe distance. Shy, wary, each one assessing the other, in their shared territory. Over the months, rituals and habits formed – a kind of aloof curiosity from the she-bear, and a feeling of ownership from Orson. He never took for granted the truce between them or her exquisite tolerance. He walked in her land, but being a man, he thought of her as ‘my bear.’

Chapter 2

She was growing big and listless. She sat under her favourite tree to daydream the mornings away; ate new tips from the low branches after long and fussy selection; scratched and groomed herself endlessly – spending long moments inspecting and polishing her claws. She could pick a daisy and hold it in her mouth till the flower wilted at the corner of her leathery lips. She had her ways, and for Orson, she was just a languid lady. By now her belly was well stretched and under the lighter fur, soft pale blue skin appeared around the full dugs. At times she grunted mysteriously; she would stop feeding for a few minutes and seemed to listen to sounds that only she could hear. Her sensitive nose twitched and took the scents when Orson opened his lunch tin. He ate his bread and sausage leaning against a fallen tree worn shiny by his strong back. In bravado he kept his axe and his gun far from his hand. They lived amicably and the unwritten peace between them was a precious bounty.

The she-bear didn’t need the man, and the man had no designs on the she-bear.

At first, she refused the proffered food; she ignored the fish he left for her near the stream; she would make a detour to avoid the fruit he strung on low branches like harvest garlands. He never tried to give her the scraps from his lunch; in his mind she was far too special and lady-like in her tastes. When, at rest time, Orson harangued her with one of his long introverted monologues, she munched and yawned like a bored official at a provincial meeting. They lived like two foreigners, speaking different tongues, two drifters thrown onto the same shore, willing to exchange views but unable to communicate. They were neighbours who knew each other by sight; saluted each other when it couldn’t be avoided, and on occasions, passed the time of day together. An invisible garden fence kept them apart and it was well. Twice she followed him home. She grunted uphill, a few steps behind him, and the small hairs at the back of his neck stood erect until he'd turn around to say good night. Then, after some hesitation and what appeared to be deep thoughts, she would trot away, back to her own woods.

Orson's nights were peopled with thoughts of winter, dreams and memories. His wife and his twin girls danced through his febrile dawns; they danced like fireflies, till the pure light changed into devouring flames. Each night he fought the flames, each night he swallowed their ashes. When he woke, black dots and circles of fire swam in the liquid of his blue eyes; his temples throbbed.

‘Message from above, my Lady. Soon, winter will be upon us. I hope that your winter quarters are warm and your fat thick.’

She sat on her haunches and looked at Orson who held his breath. She moved her head up and down, selecting scents that pleased her; their mingled breaths rose like white smoke in the sour morning. She grunted in a different way: a long tremulous growl, almost a purr. Orson, cut off, unwilling to cross the bear, stood shivering; he felt slightly foolish and alarmed. He didn’t know what the bear had in mind; he prepared himself for flight; adrenaline pumped wildly in his blood stream, the dark hairs that covered his torso, his shoulders and his arms quivered with a life of their own. In the warm cabin his breakfast was cooking: a pheasant stew with potatoes from his own patch simmered by the fire; in another deep pan, sourdough bread was baking under a lid covered with hot embers; he could smell the hot bread. He thought he heard the bear say: ‘I’m hungry. It smells good.’

On one such morning, he had left his bed and, naked to the waist, had gone to the water trough to wash; on his return he found the she-bear lying across his path. In the clearing, the autumn sun reached the cabin in a wide beam, the colours in the trees had turned, a leaf detached itself from a golden poplar, it turned and turned in the morning light and landed softly on the bear’s nose.

‘Be my guest, I’ll be delighted to share my humble fare, and delighted to put some clothes on.’

With deliberate steps he walked towards the cabin; the bear followed. While he dressed, she sat at the door like a guest in a fur coat, someone who hasn’t been invited in. Stretching her neck she took in the layout of the simple room; her nose quivered and she yawned wide showing her formidable teeth and