Page 10 of Bears Not Included

After spending days upon days reading newspaper articles from the era and going over maps until I thought I was going blind, I finally found a strange kind of mail-order bride advertisement letter that had been written to the editor of a newspaper publication and was published some twenty years later by a young man.

In a few sentences, he gave an account of the battle against three men who lived hidden in the west of the peak of the mountain range, a mile and a bit more from where the rapids of Sonny’s Creek beat treacherously, and a giant oak tree laid its roots.

He didn’t go into much detail, just that his grandfather had fought bravely for the return of a fair maiden who was taken by three men, and he was killed in battle. The writer of the advertisement then sold the idea that he not only took after the likeness of his handsome grandfather but was also as brave and honorable.

And just like that, Finneas Wilbur Chatter, advertising for a bride, solved the mystery of the location of the three bears’ cottage.

Sonny’s Creek doesn’t exist anymore, either. Natural climate changes, shifts in the ecosystem—it could have been anything that made the creek disappear. But it was there once upon a time, and there are maps to prove its existence.

My muscles start to ache now, but I push through, and before long, it’s only adrenaline keeping me moving. I don’t look at the time. I have no idea how many miles I covered or how far up the mountain I’ve gotten.

I only stop for water breaks before I move on. But suddenly, I feel like my map is taking me around in circles. For a moment, I start to panic when everything looks the same as it did ten or fifteen minutes ago.

I check my phone for the first time, and I’m relieved that I still have a fairly strong signal. The instant a sliver of doubt enters my mind that maybe my mom was wrong, I think about my father and the way he looked at her with such irritation and disdain, and I’m given a boost of energy.

It’s here; I just have to find it, and so I carry on for my mom.

I come across a fence with a rusty sign hanging on a fenced door that says Trespassers will be prosecuted. I start to tremble. There’s absolutely no record of there being any privately owned land around these parts. Maybe it’s an old sign, I tell myself. But I need to get to the other side because that’s where Sonny’s Creek used to flow.

I’ve already been walking for hours on end. I need to be back in my car before the sun starts to sink into the opposite side of the sky. I can’t waste any more time trying to find a way around this fence. I have no idea how many miles the fence could go, and I’m not going to find out.

I reach out and run my fingers against the thick, heavy padlock and chain, my hand shaking as I contemplate a way in.

My reasons aren’t nefarious; I can explain myself if I’m caught.

I lift the heavy metal lock in my hand, then glance behind me, looking for a rock I can use to hopefully break it open.

But a frown settles on my face. Did I hear a clicking sound and a slight buzz in my hand? I look at the lock again and it’s open. How could that be possible? Before I start getting paranoid, I tell myself it was probably not locked in the first place, and I'm jumping to conclusions without merit.

The lock is open because there’s no documented landowner on this side of the mountain. With everything else I researched, I would have found something. I’m not even trespassing on private property, actually.

I walk for another mile and a half, sizzling with apprehension, fear, excitement, and sadness. And then I see it.

I stifle a laugh that surges up from my whole body and vibrates through every fiber of my being.

Holy shit. Am I seeing what I’m seeing?

I blink repeatedly in the bright mountain winter sunlight, convinced I’m imagining what lies before my eyes.

As if it had been created out of the words of a fairytale, the softly painted blue structure, surrounded by lilies and lavender, with its large bay windows and a soft magical glow around it that looks like a halo, calls to me.

The logical side of my brain knows it’s the rays of the sun creating the glow, but nothing can take away the magic of it all for me now. I don’t even care if I’m embellishing the truth. I don’t even care if I’ve replaced a crumbling edifice with something this fantastical, probably just as Barrett Marticus Ursid had described it when he captured their story on paper.

It exists.

It exists, mom.

Slowly, I take off my rose-tinted glasses, and that’s when I see the cracks that are hundreds of years old. I see it for what it really is.

The paint is peeling, and the flowers are wild and overgrown. The bay window is murky and can’t be seen through. The chimney sticking out from the roof is orange with rust and looks as if a single breath will have it disintegrate into dust. The roof is dilapidated from the rain and looks as if it is rotting in places.

Still, I stand transfixed with wonder. I’m staring at the house where the three shifter bears lived. I’m not even making this up.

It’s real.

“It’s here, Mom. It truly exists, just like you said it would.”

A level of peace settles over me, and I feel the warmth of the sun on my back as if my mom is with me. This is my moment. My goodbye.

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