And then he found them.
First one, then two, then a third and fourth—four lifeless baby sparrows, scattered in the short grass where they had been thrown from their nest. Matted fuzz covered the twisted little bodies. Two had died with their big yellow beaks open as if searching for food. The other two lay facing the nest, their necks reaching out. Even in death, the sparrows had strained toward their nest. They had tried to make it back to the safety of their home.
Cole envied the dead sparrows. He had never really known any home. It sure wasn’t the big brick building that his parents landscaped and fixed up to impress the neighbors. Nor was it the empty space he returned to most days after school. Even before his parents’ divorce, Cole had always wanted to run away from that place.
As Cole stared at the tiny bodies, sadness flooded through him. The sparrows were so frail, helpless, and innocent. They hadn’t deserved to die. Then again, what right did they have to live? This haunted Cole. Did the birds’ insignificant little existences have any meaning at all? Or did his?
He watched one solitary gray sparrow hopping among the broken branches near the nest. Was that the mother? Was she looking for her young? Cole licked his cracked and dried lips. At least the babies had a mother to search for them. Nobody, not even a scrawny gray bird, was looking for him.
Cole’s eyes grew moist. He couldn’t stop thinking about the tiny birds strewn in the grass. Had they suffered before they died? Or did their fragile existence just suddenly stop? And what had happened to their energy when their hearts quit beating? It didn’t seem right that now maggots would eat the bodies. Or maybe they would just rot into the ground to help the grass grow. Maybe that was the circle Edwin had spoken of. You live, die, and rot, then something else lives, dies, and rots.
Cole understood this cycle. Beside him a tree had died. Already, ants and bugs crawled among the cracked bark and splintered wood. For them life went on. In a few weeks they would make new homes from the wood. With time, the tree would rot and become dirt. Then a new seed would fall and grow, and another tree would push upward. Years later, that tree would fall back to earth and begin the cycle all over again.
Yes, death was part of living. Cole knew his own body would eventually die and decay and be reduced to dirt. That was okay. That was how the world worked. But how had the world benefited from his living? Was he no better than a tree or some weed? Was his life just fertilizer for the soil?
Cole grunted angrily—he didn’t want to die yet. Yes, someday that would be part of his circle. Someday he would lie in his own waste and be eaten by maggots. But not now! Suddenly, in that moment, Cole made a simple decision.
He wanted to live.
In death there was no control, no anger, no one to blame, no choices, no nothing. To be alive was to have choice. The power to choose was real power, not the fake power of making others afraid. Cole knew he had used that fake power many times. All of his life he had squandered his choices, wallowing in revenge and self-pity, keeping himself down. Now, as he lay near death, those he had hated were safe and warm. Those he had blamed were still alive and well. He had hurt himself most. Life was empty and meaningless unless he found some meaning.
Maybe it was a vision or maybe just a thought. Maybe a hallucination. A simple image entered Cole’s mind: a tiny sparrow in a nest, helpless, neck straining upward, mouth gaping open. The sparrow Cole imagined was not angry. The young bird was helpless. It knew nothing of pride or control. It pleaded only for help, wanting nothing more than a worm brought by its mother. A worm was food, food was energy, and energy was life. The baby begged simply for life.
Mosquitoes and horseflies swarmed around Cole’s face. He grunted and jerked his head. It didn’t matter who was at fault for his dismal life. All that mattered was living. Cole wanted to live and once again make choices. But to live he needed food. And soon!
But how? Every ounce of food he had eaten earlier lay in vomited chunks beside his body.
Cole fingered blades of grass under his left hand, then broke off a few and brought them to his lips. His dry, swollen tongue felt stuffed into his mouth. Deliberately, he opened his crusted lips and poked the grass inside. As he worked his jaws to chew, he reached for more grass.
Gradually the stringy green blades formed a wad in his mouth, and he swallowed. Without water, the clump caught in his throat. Again he tried to swallow, but gagged. The clump was stuck and refused to go down or come back up.
Panicking, Cole stifled a cough—he didn’t dare cough. Frantically he gagged harder, twisting his head, straining until he felt blood vessels bulge on his face. He couldn’t breathe. The clump was suffocating him. Raising his head, mouth wide open, he convulsed, frantic and desperate to dislodge the grass. His body screamed for air. Then suddenly, explosively, he coughed, ejecting the wad of grass.
Violent pain, like the claws of the Spirit Bear, ripped at his ribs. Cole gasped and clenched his teeth, hugging his side with his left arm while his head swam in a fog. A long grueling minute passed before the pain eased and he dared allow a shallow breath to seep past his lips.
Sweat beaded his forehead. When he opened his eyes again, he glanced around and found the stringy lump of grass on the ground beside his chest. He stared. What other choice did he have if he wanted to live? Reluctantly he picked up the wad and returned it to his mouth. This time he chewed a very long time before swallowing. He exhaled with relief when the grass went down.
As Cole reached for more grass, he spotted a worm near his hand and grabbed it instead. The long worm bunched up and squirmed to get free, so he brought it quickly to his mouth and poked it safely past his cracked lips. It coiled against his tongue as he bit it and started chewing. The worm was easier to chew than grass and went down with the first swallow. Cole searched for another. As he searched, the rain began again. He opened his mouth and let the drops tickle his tongue. Maybe the rain would bring out more worms.
The second and third worms Cole found were smaller, and he ate them quickly. His teeth crunched on dirt, and there wasn’t much flavor, but he chewed as he watched another big worm creep slowly past his hand just inches beyond his reach. Failing to find more worms, he turned his attention to bugs. The ground teemed with insects, and he began putting ants, beetles, spiders, and even a fuzzy caterpillar into his mouth. With each insect, he closed his eyes and imagined a baby sparrow reaching upward with an opened beak.
Finally, exhausted, Cole rested. Sometime later, the rain stopped, and a warm sun brought back the thick clouds of mosquitoes and horseflies. They swarmed over Cole’s body as if it were a dead carcass. He tried to shoo them away with an awkward swing of his hand, but they returned before his fingers touched the ground. Dozens blanketed his bloody face, neck, chest, and arms.
The only place Cole felt no bites was on his broken right arm. He raised his head to look. His right arm was shaded black with mosquitoes, as thick as hair. Cole could only stare, and finally he closed his eyes. In the darkness, he still felt the sharp bites of the horseflies, and he felt the mosquitoes, dozens and dozens of tiny pins pricking him, sucking at him, leaving their itchy venom behind. If only he had the at.óow blanket for protection. He had no idea where the blanket was. How could he have ever tried to burn it? It would have protected him from the cold, the rain, the wind, and the insects. It might even have protected him from himself.
Cole lost consciousness again.
Hours later, drifting awake, Cole became aware of a tickling sensation on his left arm. He opened his eyes to find a small gray mouse perched on his elbow, working its way toward his wrist. It stopped every step to poke a whiskered nose about. Cole lay motionless as the skittish mouse ventured across his forearm and sniffed at his wrist, then inched onto his upturned palm. Cole held his breath. He would have only one chance. Catching this mouse would be better than a dozen worms or a hundred bugs.
The mosquitoes had not slowed their feasting. Hundreds covered Cole’s exposed skin, their tiny torsos swollen
with blood. Several landed on his eyelids, and Cole blinked to drive them away—he dared not move his hand to swat at them. Focusing his gaze on the mouse, he waited for it to take one more step. It moved its whiskered head back and forth with jerky caution, then stepped forward.
Cole clamped his hand closed.
CHAPTER 11
THE MOUSE STRUGGLED, biting at Cole’s fingers with razor-sharp teeth, its tiny feet clawing frantically to escape. Cole pitied the scared little mouse, but he held on, gripping with all his strength. This mouse was his quarry, like a gull catching a herring or an owl catching a rabbit. He squeezed the mouse but was too weak to stop the struggling.
Cole felt the mouse squirming free, so quickly he brought his fist to his mouth. He pressed his hand against his lips and forced the struggling rodent between his teeth. It kept struggling, biting at Cole’s lips and tongue.
Cole bit down, too, and a tiny bone crunched. The mouse spasmed but kept squirming. Cole bit again but his jaw lacked strength. Still the mouse wiggled and twisted, frantically chewing at Cole’s tongue. For a brief second, Cole felt a furry head pass between his back teeth and he willed his jaws together with every ounce of strength he could gather. The small skull crushed, and then the mouse stiffened and quit squirming.
With the dead mouse bunched in his cheek, Cole rested his jaw. Occasionally the tiny body twitched. Gradually, Cole worked his teeth together, gnawing on the body. Salty fluids filled his mouth, and he forced himself to again imagine a baby sparrow with an opened beak. Food was energy, and energy was life.
Eating the mouse exhausted Cole, and by the time he had chewed up the tiny bones and swallowed the wad of tough furry skin, he lay spent, mouth gaping open. His jaw ached and felt hollow. Mosquitoes landed on his lips and tongue at will. His skin had become swollen and puffy, burning with a fiery itch.
Cole wanted desperately to live, but how? The wretched insects sucked life from him faster than he could replenish it. He closed his eyes to the bloodletting, but that did not stop the torment. In the maddening darkness he sensed another movement. Again he opened his eyes, half expecting to see the Spirit Bear. Instead, he found two seagulls near his head, pecking fish chunks from the vomit he had thrown up in the grass.
My puke, Cole thought. They’re eating my puke.
In that moment, Cole realized how badly he wanted to live. The food he had thrown up was still food. Those fish bits still contained energy, and energy was life. No thieving seagull was going to steal life from him. He jerked his arm at the gulls. “Mine,” he grunted. “That’s mine.” Squawking, the gulls hopped beyond his reach.
Cole stretched his arm out, picked a small chunk of fish from the grass, and brought it to his mouth. After swallowing, he reached for more. Bit by bit he ate until the few remaining pieces were too small to pinch between his fingers. Finally he relaxed. Eating had taken his last ounce of energy. He closed his eyes as drizzle fell again. The falling moisture felt like more mosquitoes landing, but as it turned to rain, it cooled Cole’s burning skin. He opened his cracked lips and let rain hit his swollen, chalky tongue.
Earlier, Cole had felt hollow and weak, as if all the blood had emptied from his body. Now he felt something difficult to describe. Despite the cold, energy seeped through his body, letting him grasp thoughts and hold them in his mind. He felt satisfaction. He had provided for himself and could feel his body absorbing the food he had eaten. But still his body desperately needed water. He was thirsty. So very thirsty.
As the rain fell again, the ground softened. Cole dug with his fingers and brought mud up to smear onto his swollen neck and face. He smeared mud over his broken arm and onto his ripped-open chest. Maybe this would help keep the mosquitoes away. The wet dirt soothed Cole’s burning skin. When his arm tired, he rested again.
Gradually, rain pooled where he had dug up mud beside him. He stared at the muddy water, then placed his hand into the puddle. Each movement was forced as he cupped his palm and brought the brown murky liquid up to his mouth. Again and again, he reached for more water. Sometimes only a few drops made it past his dried lips, but gradually moisture coated his throat and finally allowed him to swallow.
Cole let his weary arm collapse to the ground. Resting, he gazed out toward the bay at the eagles snatching fish from the surface. Nearer the shore swam a mother seal with her pups, their heads bobbing in the water as they worked the fish schools near the rocks. Cole scanned the ground once more and caught two more worms that surfaced with the new rain. He dropped them into his mouth, and chewed. The animals weren’t the only ones who could forage to survive.
The sound of a twig breaking was Cole’s only warning. He turned his head to find the Spirit Bear standing barely twenty feet away, staring at him, one paw forward as if frozen in midstride. The bear’s shiny nose twitched as raindrops beaded into splashed pearls on its shaggy hair. Its eyes glinted and flickered.
Cole’s heart raced, and his wounds throbbed. He felt the ripping of his skin all over again and heard once more the breaking of his bones. Too numb with cold and fear to even cry out, he eyed the Spirit Bear standing like a carved statue.
Cole licked at his cracked lips. Had the bear returned to kill him, or was it just toying with him? He found himself trembling with fear, not of death, but of helplessness. He hated being at the mercy of the world around him. Why didn’t this monstrous white creature just walk in and finish what it had started? A single bite from its massive jaw, one hard swat from its powerful paw, anything now would tip the balance and end this nightmare.
One way or another, Cole decided to bring this moment to a conclusion. His mouth held little moisture, but deliberately he dredged up spit from deep in his throat, all the while meeting the bear’s intense gaze with one of his own.
When not one more drop of moisture would form, Cole painfully lifted his head. He sucked in the deepest breath he dared. He was spitting at more than the Spirit Bear. He was spitting at his life. The world would take him to the grave with a slimy goober on its face. Cole Matthews would still have the last word.
Preparing for his final act of defiance, Cole drew his chin back, then he spit hard, flinging the saliva with a desperate throw of his head. Pain attacked him from all sides, but he kept his eyes open. He wanted the satisfaction of watching this last moment.
As if in slow motion, the glob of spit arched weakly toward the Spirit Bear but landed in the grass far short of its mark. Cole collapsed. That was it then, he had done all he could. Now the world could do as it pleased with him.
The Spirit Bear raised its head slightly and sniffed the air with a long curious breath, then it started forward. Cole tensed. This was how the first attack should have ended.
CHAPTER 12
THE SPIRIT BEAR approached Cole with a slow lazy stride, its head held low. Cole clenched his fist. Maybe he could hold up his arm. Maybe he had energy for one last swing.
Ten feet away, the bear paused where Cole’s spit had hit the grass. It lowered its head and sniffed. Still eyeing Cole, the Spirit Bear casually licked up the spit, raised its head, eyes mild and curious, then turned and sauntered away.
Cole felt a sudden rush of tears and emotion. Death would be okay if it came fast, existence ending in one last violent moment of defiance. Cole could understand that kind of death. But here, he lay exposed, alone, ignored, his life leaking from his body like water from some rusty bucket. Even a bear considered him insignificant, licking up his spit as casually as if it were dew.
The Spirit Bear never once slowed or looked back. Cole fought back his tears until the last trace of white faded into the thick underbrush, and then he began to sob. He was dying, alone and insignificant, and nobody cared.
Drifting off into a dream world, Cole imagined he was a baby bird in a nest. Around him, a storm raged and the trees swayed violently. Driving rain pelted him like hail.
Frantic, Cole struggled to fly, but he couldn’t escape the nest. All he could do was open his beak wide and raise it
upward toward the sky, the action a simple admission that he was powerless. There were no conditions, no vices, no lies, no deceit, no manipulation. Only submission and a simple desire to live. He wanted to live, but for that he needed help; otherwise his life would end in the nest.
Suddenly, the violent winds calmed, and the rain stopped. Cole strained upward with his opened beak as his senses drifted back into the real world of pain. Again he was in his wounded body on an island prison. The storm had stopped, and something had awakened him. An overpowering animal smell. His eyes opened.
Looming over Cole, its breath warm and musty, towered the Spirit Bear. Inches away. Its legs rose like pillars beside Cole’s arms, and mist glistened on its white hair.
The world stopped.
For Cole there was no wind, no cold, no time, no pain, no sound. There existed only one object, the Spirit Bear. Its shiny black eyes held eternity. Its intense gaze penetrated, never wavering.
Surprisingly, Cole did not feel the terror he had once known. Maybe the Spirit Bear had come to kill him. Maybe it was only curious. Whatever the reason, Cole gazed calmly back up at the bear. He knew he would fight to the last moment to live. Any animal would do that. Even worms coiled back and forth to escape capture and death. But Cole also knew that if he died, his time had arrived. It would be like the baby birds, or like the worms, or the mouse. It was his turn.
Cole’s eyes watered, and he blinked. This was the end, then. Resigned to his fate, he gazed into the bear’s eyes but found no aggression—only curiosity. It was as if the bear were waiting. But waiting for what? Instinctively, Cole gathered what little spit he could in his mouth. When the meager fluid bathed his tongue, he stopped, paused, and then swallowed.
Cole did not understand why he had swallowed or what happened next. Hesitantly he raised his left hand off the ground. As if reaching for an electric fence, he cautiously extended his fingers toward the Spirit Bear’s shoulder. Inches away, he paused.