My son’s birthday is coming up soon, and I still don’t have a present. Sure, I can go to the toy store, but I want something special to give to him. Very special. So tonight, I’m going to the grotto.

My wife helps me pack. Only when I get in the SUV does she speak to me. “Be careful.” It’s a longer drive than I thought. Two hours takes me to the edge of the forest. I kill the engine and grab the sack, entering it on foot.

Moonlight streams through bare, black branches, illuminating the ground in front of me. Still, I’m not a forest man. Twigs snap beneath my boots. Thickets rustle as I push through them. I sound like an elephant lurching through the undergrowth. Yet somehow I reach the grotto undetected.

It’s one thing to hear the stories; another to actually see it. Grass, still soft and green, quiet beneath my feet. The lick of pond water at the grotto’s entrance. The grotto itself, a rocky swell of ground no higher than my shoulders, the craggy mouth in its side, the darkness gaping within. Even the air is slightly warmer—winter’s touch is barely tolerated here.

The makeshift sack feels buoyant—it’s not much of a sack…more of a pillowcase, really. Already, the smell from it makes my eyelids droop, my head jerk with drowsiness. I don’t have the coffee thermos with me—I left it back in the car, thinking it would weigh me down. So, holding the pillowcase close, but not too close, I hunker down by the nearest bush, forcing my eyes to stay open and on the grotto.

I don’t have long to wait.

Echoes of playful squeaks come from within the darkness, followed by a few deep whuffs. Soon, small shapes spill into the open and amble to the pond gleaming a few steps away. I can see them clearly: a mother bear, no taller than my knee, and two cubs, brown fur glossy with moonshine. Too bad there’s only two—with three or more, I could make the snatch easily. Instead, I’m gonna have a fight on my hands.

Well, I knew that would happen anyway. Might as well get it over with.

I reach into the pillowcase, feeling for the chamomile. I don’t want the other ones yet—too strong an odor, and it will spook the bears away. Carefully, I bring the chamomile out to my lips. Even under my slight breath, their delicate heads dip, wafting their slight, springy fragrance.

Mother Bear’s snout barely ripples the water as she drinks. The cubs tumble over each other, more intent on playing than slaking their thirst. Their horseplay carries them a little ways from the grotto’s entrance, closer towards me. Trying not to inhale too deeply, I pucker my lips and breathe lightly across the feathery tops.

The two cubs growl, nipping each other’s furry backs before backing off, panting playfully. Abruptly, one of them plops down on the grass and yawns, wide enough for me to see its small, pebbly teeth. The mother rears, water dripping from its snout, snarl rippling through the air.

Cover blown.

I charge from the bushes, digging frantically in the pillowcase for the lavender. Mother Bear gives three sharp hoots and the cubs scatter, the one that yawned weaving towards the trees, away from the safety of the grotto. I scramble after it, but for a stubby, disoriented little thing, it’s fast. I’m bent double as I chase it, almost on all fours myself, breath coming out in harsh, ragged pants.

Pain lances my right shoulder. I stumble, plough face first into the grass. Mother Bear grunts, her breath loud and hot in my ear. Gasping, I yank her off. She’s surprisingly light but extremely agitated, snarling and thrashing about, trying to gnaw at my fingers. I’m not too worried—they told me the teeth wee too blunt to cause any damage. It’s the claws I gotta watch out for.

More pain shoots through my left ankle. A cub has latched onto my leg, scrabbling its rear paws through my socks. Its claws are thinner than its mother’s and far sharper—I can feel them piercing the cotton, digging into the top layer of my skin.

This is the one I want.

I throw the mother as far from me as I can, then grab the scruff of the cub and pull hard. Like peeling off a furry, writhing scab—tears prick my eyes, but I get the thing off. As the cub writhes and squeals in outrage, I flail for the lavender scattered about me and shove it into the cub’s face. Instantly, its body slumps, its eyes glazing in drowsiness.

A soft moan makes me look up. Mother Bear had seen what happened, but instead of rushing forward in a second attack, she stares at me from the grotto’s entrance, her remaining cub huddled next to her. She hoots again, gently this time, rocking from side to side.

Aloud, I say, “I’m sorry.”

Then I pry open the cub’s mouth and shove the lavender down its throat. Its cottony inwards twitch and pulse as I push as far as my hand could go. From the discarded pillowcase, I pull out the stuffing: more lavender, more chamomile, wrapped in cotton gauze. I stuff it into the cub’s gullet, pack it tight with leaves, stems, flowers, roots. The cub convulses, its struggles growing weaker and weaker until I’ve nearly emptied the pillowcase. Then it jerks three times and stills, dark seeds and light fluff speckling its snout. Gently, I close its mouth.

I lay it on top of the pillowcase and stand up, wincing at the pain and blood from my ankle. The remaining cub whimpers, but Mother Bear doesn’t move. She watches quietly, without rage or remorse, just to see what I do now.

Most men would take off at this point. But not me. I told my wife—promised her, really—that I would do it right.

Taking a deep breath, I unzip my jacket. Unbutton my shirt. Pull off the undershirt. When I am bare to the waist, I kneel down and puff my chest slightly out so Mother Bear can see. She steps forward, cocks her head.

“Go on,” I say, through teeth chattering not from cold.

I steel myself for her sudden pounce, the cold slap of pain ripping through my flesh. I clench my jaw, squeeze my streaming eyes shut, determined to ride out the pain. When she leans down to bite, however, I can’t keep the howls from tearing loose from my throat.

I was wrong not to worry about the teeth.

She chews, gnaws, rips, tears at my chest…until she stops. And though I’m in agony, I’m afraid to open my eyes, afraid to look down and see my beating heart exposed to chill air. I don’t want to see it. I don’t…I don’t…

Hot moist breath smelling of honey and grass. In reflex, I open my eyes to see Mother Bear’s face, her eyes squinted, measuring. The stories are right—they truly do mirror the universe, its ancient agelessness, time existing out of time. When certain she has my attention, she leans back a little to lift her paw.

Those claws…dark and slender, as long as my thumb, shiny with blood, my blood. They are as dark and wet as her eyes, as hard and razor sharp. Mother Bear exhales, then, deliberately, wraps her other paw around one, working it back and forth until it breaks off. Hypnotized, I watch her lower the broken claw to the ragged, bloody ruin of my chest, to the flesh jerking and pulsing, exposed to the night air. Slowly, she pushes the claw in, like a thumbtack into a bulletin board.

To my surprise, I don’t feel anything. That’s not so bad, I think.

Then the world…the universe…explodes.

No one told me about this part. Yes, I knew what would happen, but they didn’t tell me about the pain, the pain that turns everything white, that goes beyond shrieking, beyond howling, the pain that goes to the bottom of a mother’s tear-rimmed eyes and dumps out into a vast galaxy sharper than moonlight, sharper than starlight, vaster than the vacuum of space, shrinking everything else to nonexistence, the grotto, the bear, my own beating heart, it all pales, all shrinks to nothingness except pain, pain, pain, pain, blinding, screaming pain…

I don’t remember gaining consciousness. I simply register that the sky is purple, which means dawn isn’t too far off. I’m on my back, the ground a soft, cushioning bed. Gingerly, I look down, but my chest is whole again—not a welt mars my skin. But the grass around me is wet with blood, and as I sit up, an ache flares in my heart like glass ground to dust beneath a heel.

Mother Bear is gone, along with her only cub. The cub I captured rests on the pillowcase next to me, its features growing soft in the emerging sunlight. I pick it up and study its splayed limbs, its glassy eyes. Then carefully, I cradle it in my arms.

---

The bear has its home on my son’s bed. He’s called it his ‘bestest birthday present, ever’. He squeezes it and reads to it and whispers secrets in its ear. He carries it around by one foot, its head bouncing against the floorboards. At night, he snuggles up to it, never falls asleep without it.

Occasionally, he leaves it on the floor, its button eyes gazing blankly up at the ceiling. That’s when I pick it up and carry it back to its usual spot. Each time I do, I hold it to my chest just a little longer, put it back more reluctantly. There are nights when I’ve taken the bear to my own bed, hours after my wife is asleep. I pull it close, feeling the fur tickle my chest, making sure its ear is nestled against my heart.

Someday, when my son won’t care about this bear anymore, I’ll take it back to the grotto. I’ll take it back to its mother, who will be waiting for me there. Alone.

Maybe she’ll let me keep the claw as a reminder.

 

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Lavender and Chamomile by LaShawn Wanak
originally published October 12, 2009