THE FIRE BEAR.
One evening in December, a few weeks after Liney had saved Balser’s life
by means of the borrowed fire, Balser’s father and mother and Mr. and
Mrs. Fox, went to Marion, a town of two houses and a church, three miles
away, to attend “Protracted Meeting.” Liney and Tom and the Fox baby
remained with Balser and Jim and the Brent baby, at the Brent cabin.
When the children were alone Liney proceeded to put the babies to sleep,
and when those small heads of their respective households were dead to
the world in slumber, rocked to that happy condition in a cradle made
from the half of a round, smooth log, hollowed out with an adze, the
other children huddled together in the fireplace to talk and to play
games. Chief among the games was that never failing source of delight,
“Simon says thumbs up.”
Outside the house the wind, blowing through the trees of the forest,
rose and sank in piteous wails and moans, by turns, and the snow fell in
angry, fitful blasts, and whirled and turned, eddied and drifted, as if
it were a thing of life. The weather was bitter cold; but the fire on
the great hearth in front of the children seemed to feel that while the
grown folks were away it was its duty to be careful of the children, and
to be gentle, tender, and comforting to them; so it spluttered, popped,
and cracked like the sociable, amiable, and tender-hearted fire that it
was. It invited the children to go near it and to take its warmth, and
told, as plainly as a fire could,—and a fire can talk, not English
perhaps, but a very understandable language of its own,—that it would
not burn them for worlds. So, as I said, the children sat inside the
huge fireplace, and cared little whether or not the cold north wind
blew.
After “Simon” had grown tiresome, Liney told riddles, all of which Tom,
who had heard them before, spoiled by giving the answer before the
others had a chance to guess. Then Limpy propounded a few riddles, but
Liney, who had often heard them, would not disappoint her brother by
telling the answers. Balser noticed this, and said, “Limpy, you ought to
take a few lessons in good manners from your sister.”
“Why ought I?” asked Tom, somewhat indignantly.
“Because she doesn’t tell your riddles as you told hers,” answered
Balser.
“He wants to show off,” said Jim.
“No, he doesn’t,” said Liney. But she cast a grateful glance at Balser,
which said, “Thank you” as plainly as if she had spoken the words. Tom
hung his head, and said he didn’t like riddles anyway.
“Let’s crack some nuts,” proposed Jim, who was always hungry.
This proposition seemed agreeable to all, so Balser brought in a large
gourd filled with nuts, and soon they were all busy cracking and
picking.
Then Liney told stories from “The Pilgrim’s Progress” and the Bible. She
was at the most thrilling part of the story of Daniel in the lions’ den,
and her listeners were eager, nervous, and somewhat fearful, when the
faint cry of “Help!” seemed to come right down through the mouth of the
chimney.
“Listen!” whispered Balser, holding up his hands for silence. In a
moment came again the cry, “Help!” The second cry was still faint, but
louder than the first; and the children sprang together with a common
impulse, and clung to Balser in unspoken fear.
“Help! help!” came the cry, still nearer and louder.
“Some one wants help,” whispered Balser. “I—must—go—to—him.” The latter
clause was spoken rather hesitatingly.
“No, no!” cried Liney. “You must not go. It may be Indians trying to get
you out there to kill you, or it may be a ghost. You’ll surely be killed
if you go.”
Liney’s remark somewhat frightened Balser, and completely frightened the
other children; but it made Balser feel all the more that he must not be
a coward before her. However much he feared to go in response to the cry
for help, he must not let Liney see that he was afraid. Besides, the boy
knew that it was his duty to go; and although with Balser the sense of
duty moved more slowly than the sense of fear, yet it moved more surely.
So he quickly grasped his gun, and carefully examined the load and
priming. Then he took a torch, lighted it at the fire, and out he rushed
into the blinding, freezing storm.
“Who’s there?” cried Balser, holding his torch on high.
“Help! help!” came the cry from a short distance down the river,
evidently in the forest back of the barn. Balser hurried in the
direction whence the cry had come, and when he had proceeded one hundred
yards or so, he met a man running toward him, almost out of breath from
fright and exhaustion. Balser’s torch had been extinguished by the wind,
snow, and sleet, and he could not see the man’s face.
“Who are you, and what’s the matter with you?” asked brave little
Balser, meanwhile keeping his gun ready to shoot, if need be.
“Don’t you know me, Balser?” gasped the other.
“Is it you, Polly?” asked Balser. “What on earth’s the matter?”
“The Fire Bear! The Fire Bear!” cried Poll. “He’s been chasin’ me fur
Lord knows how long. There he goes! There! Don’t you see him? He’s
movin’ down to the river. He’s crossin’ the river on the ice now. There!
There!” And he pointed in the direction he wished Balser to look. Sure
enough, crossing on the ice below the barn, was the sharply defined form
of a large bear, glowing in the darkness of the night as if it were on
fire. This was more than even Balser’s courage could withstand; so he
started for the house as fast as his legs could carry him, and Polly
came panting and screaming at his heels.
[Illustration: “’Help! help!’ came the cry.”]
Polly’s name, I may say, was Samuel Parrott. He was a harmless, simple
fellow, a sort of hanger-on of the settlement, and his surname, which
few persons remembered, had suggested the nickname of Poll, or Polly, by
which he was known far and wide.
By the time Balser had reached the house he was ashamed of his
precipitate retreat, and proposed that he and Polly should go out and
further investigate the Fire Bear.
This proposition met with such a decided negative from Polly, and such a
vehement chorus of protests from Liney and the other children, that
Balser, with reluctance in his manner, but gladness in his heart,
consented to remain indoors, and to let the Fire Bear take his way
unmolested.
“When did you first see him?” asked Balser of Polly Parrot.
“’Bout a mile down the river, by Fox’s Bluff,” responded Polly. “I’ve
been runnin’ every step of the way, jist as hard as I could run, and
that there Fire Bear not more’n ten feet behind me, growlin’ like
thunder, and blazin’ and smokin’ away like a bonfire.”
“Nonsense,” said Balser. “He wasn’t blazing when I saw him.”
“Of course he wasn’t,” responded Poll. “He’d about burned out. D’ye
think a bear could blaze away forever like a volcano?” Poll’s logical
statement seemed to be convincing to the children.
“And he blazed up, did he?” asked Liney, her bright eyes large with
wonder and fear.
“Blazed up!” ejaculated Polly. “Bless your soul, Liney, don’t you see
how hot I am? Would a man be sweatin’ like I am on such a night as this,
unless he’s been powerful nigh to a mighty hot fire?”
Poll’s corroborative evidence was too strong for doubt to contend
against, and a depressing conviction fell upon the entire company,
including Balser, that it was really the Fire Bear which Polly and
Balser had seen. Although Balser, in common with most of the settlers,
had laughed at the stories of the Fire Bear which had been told in the
settlement, yet now he was convinced, because he had seen it with his
own eyes. It was true that the bear was not ablaze when he saw him, but
certainly he looked like a great glowing ember, and, with Polly’s
testimony, Balser was ready to believe all he had heard concerning this
most frightful spectre of Blue River, the Fire Bear.
One of the stories concerning the Fire Bear was to the effect that when
he was angry he blazed forth into a great flame, and that when he was
not angry he was simply aglow. At times, when the forests were burned,
or when barns or straw-stacks were destroyed by fire, many persons,
especially of the ignorant class, attributed the incendiarism to the
Fire Bear. Others, who pretended to more wisdom, charged the Indians
with the crimes. Of the latter class had been Balser. But to see is to
believe.
Another superstition about the Fire Bear was, that any person who should
be so unfortunate as to behold him would die within three months after
seeing him, unless perchance he could kill the Fire Bear,—a task which
would necessitate the use of a potent charm, for the Fire Bear bore a
charmed life. The Fire Bear had been seen, within the memory of the
oldest inhabitant, by eight or ten persons, always after night. Each one
who had seen the bear had died within the three months following. He had
been stalked by many hunters, and although several opportunities to kill
him had occurred, yet no one had accomplished that much-desired event.
You may be sure there were no more games, riddles, or nut-cracking that
evening in the Brent cabin. The children stood for a few moments in a
frightened group, and then took their old places on the logs inside the
fireplace. Polly, who was stupid with fright, stood for a short time
silently facing the fire, and then said mournfully: “Balser, you and me
had better jine the church. We’re goners inside the next three
months,—goners, just as sure as my name’s Polly.” Then meditatively, “A
durned sight surer than that; for my name ain’t Polly at all; but
Samuel, or Thomas, or Bill, or something like that, I furgit which; but
we’re goners, Balser, and we might as well git ready. No livin’ bein’
ever seed that bear and was alive three months afterwards.”
Then Liney, who was sitting next to Balser, touched his arm gently, and
said:—
“I saw him too. I followed you a short way when you went out, and I saw
something bright crossing the river on the ice just below the barn. Was
that the bear?”
“Yes, yes,” cried Balser. “For goodness’ sake, Liney, why didn’t you
stay in the house?”
“You bet I stayed in,” said Jim.
“And so did I,” said Tom.
No one paid any attention to what Jim and Limpy said, and in a moment
Liney was weeping gently with her face in her hands.
Jim and Limpy then began to cry, and soon Polly was boohooing as if he
were already at the point of death. It required all of Balser’s courage
and strength to keep back the tears, but in a moment he rose to his feet
and said: “Stop your crying, everybody. I’ll kill that bear before the
three months is half gone; yes, before a month has passed. If Liney saw
him, the bear dies; that settles it.”
Liney looked up to Balser gratefully, and then, turning to Polly, said:—
“He’ll save us, Polly; he killed the one-eared bear, and it was enough
sight worse to fight than the Fire Bear. The one-eared bear was a—was a
devil.”
Polly did not share Liney’s confidence; so he sat down upon the hearth,
and gazed sadly at the fire awhile. Then, taking his elbow for his
pillow, he lay upon the floor and moaned himself to sleep.
The children sat in silence for a short time; and Jim lay down beside
Polly, and closed his eyes in slumber. Then Limpy’s head began to nod,
and soon Limpy was in the land of dreams. Balser and Liney sat upon the
spare backlog for perhaps half an hour, without speaking.
The deep bed of live coals cast a rosy glow upon their faces, and the
shadows back in the room grew darker, as the flame of the neglected fire
died out. Now and then a fitful blaze would start from a broken ember,
and the shadows danced for a moment over the floor and ceiling like
sombre spectres, but Balser and Liney saw them not.
Despite their disbelief in the existence of the Fire Bear, the
overwhelming evidence of the last two hours had brought to them a
frightful conviction of the truth of all they had heard about the
uncanny, fatal monster. Three short months of life was all that was left
to them. Such had been the fate of all who had beheld the Fire Bear.
Such certainly would be their fate unless Balser could kill him—an event
upon which Liney built much greater hope than did Balser.
After a long time Balser spoke, in a low tone, that he might not disturb
the others:—
“Liney, if I only had a charm, I might kill the Fire Bear; but a gun by
itself can do nothing against a monster that bears a charmed life. We
must have a charm. You’ve read so many books and you know so much; can’t
you think of a charm that would help me?”
“No, no, Balser,” sighed Liney, “you know more than I, a thousand
times.”
“Nonsense, Liney. Didn’t you spell down everybody—even the grown
folks—over at Caster’s bee?”
“Yes, I know I did; but spelling isn’t everything, Balser. It’s mighty
little, and don’t teach us anything about charms. You might know how to
spell every word in a big book, and still know nothing about charms.”
“I guess you’re right,” responded Balser, dolefully. “I wonder how we
can learn to make a charm.”
“Maybe the Bible would teach us,” said Liney. “They say it teaches us
nearly everything.”
“I expect it would,” responded Balser. “Suppose you try it.”
“I will,” answered Liney. Silence ensued once more, broken only by the
moaning wind and the occasional popping of the backlog.
After a few minutes Liney said in a whisper:—
“Balser, I’ve been thinking, and I’m going to tell you about something I
have. It’s a great secret. No one knows of it but mother and father and
I. I believe it’s the very thing we want for a charm. It looks like it,
and it has strange words engraved upon it.”
Balser was alive with interest.
“Do you promise never to tell any one about it?” asked Liney.
“Yes, yes, indeed. Cross my heart, ’pon honour, hope to die.”
Balser’s plain, unadorned promise was enough to bind him to secrecy
under ordinary circumstances, for he was a truthful boy; but when his
lips were sealed by such oaths as “Cross my heart,” and “Hope to die,”
death had no terrors which would have forced him to divulge.
“What is it? Quick, quick, Liney!”
“You’ll never tell?”
“No, cross my—”
“Well, I’ll tell you. I’ve a thing at home that’s almost like a cross,
only the pieces cross each other in the middle and are broad at each
end. It’s a little larger than a big button. It’s gold on the back and
has a lot of pieces of glass, each the size of a small pea, on the front
side. Only I don’t believe they’re glass at all. They are too bright for
glass. You can see them in the dark, where there’s no light at all. They
shine and glitter and sparkle, so that it almost makes you blink your
eyes. Now you never saw glass like that, did you?”
“No,” answered Balser, positively.
Liney continued; “That’s what makes me think it’s a charm; for you
couldn’t see it in the dark unless it was a charm, could you, Balser?”
“I should think not.”
“There’s a great big piece of glass, or whatever it is, in the centre of
it—as big as a large pea, and around this big piece are four words in
some strange language that nobody can make out,—at least, mother says
that nobody in this country can make them out. Mother told me that the
charm was given to her for me by a gypsy man, when I was a baby. Mother
says there’s something more to tell me about it when I become a woman.
Maybe that’s the charm of it; I’m sure it is.” And she looked up to
Balser with her soft, bright eyes full of inquiry and hope.
“I do believe that thing is a charm,” said Balser. Then meditatively: “I
know it’s a charm. Don’t tell me, Liney, that you don’t know a lot of
things.”
Liney’s sad face wore a dim smile of satisfaction at Balser’s
compliments, and again they both became silent. Balser remained in a
brown study for a few moments, and then asked:—
“Where does your mother keep the—the charm?”
“She keeps it in a box under my bed.”
“Good! good!” responded Balser. “Now I’ll tell you what to do to make it
a sure enough charm.”
“Yes, yes,” eagerly interrupted Liney.
“You take the charm and hold it on your lips while you pray seven times
that I may kill the bear. Do that seven times for seven nights, and on
the last night I’ll get the charm, and Polly, Limpey, and I will go out
and kill the bear, just as sure as you’re alive.”
The plan brought comfort to the boy and girl.
Soon Liney’s eyes became heavy, and she fell asleep; and as Balser
looked upon her innocent beauty, he felt in his heart that if seven
times seven prayers from Liney’s lips could not make a charm which would
give him strength from on high to kill the bear, there was no strength
sufficient for that task to be had any place.
Late in the night—nine o’clock—the parents of the children came home.
The sleepers were aroused, and all of them tried to tell the story of
the Fire Bear at one and the same time.
“Tell me about it, Balser,” said Mr. Fox, seriously; for he, too, was
beginning to believe in the story of the Fire Bear. Then Balser told the
story, assisted by Polly, and the strange event was discussed until late
into the night, without, however, the slightest reference to the charm
by either Balser or Liney. That was to remain their secret.
Mr. and Mrs. Fox remained with the Brents all night, and before they
left next morning, Liney whispered to Balser:—
“I’ll begin to-night, as you told me to do, with the charm. Seven nights
from this the charm will be ready—if I can make it.”
“And so will I be ready,” answered Balser, and both felt that the fate
of the Fire Bear was sealed.