12. Calling of the Bears
twelve
Calling of the Bears
E rika gives me a long side-eye with a half grin as I unwrap my burger.
“What?”
She shifts in her seat to turn and face me. “That’s your second burger.”
I wipe the crumbs off my chin with a paper napkin, eating and driving. “Sometimes I eat three.” My mouth isn’t totally full as I respond and take a gander of what’s in her lap. “Is that all you’re going to eat? A baby burger?”
“I didn’t just escape from Alcatraz, so I’m probably good with just this.”
“I didn’t have time for lunch. Picking up donation boxes for the food drive.”
“Oh, that’s right. You do that, too.” She starts sarcastic, but the inflection in her voice trails out softer.
“Yeah, I do that, too.”
“Okay. Well… again, I’m sorry you keep getting—”
“Just drop it, will you?” I swallow a long drink of soda, cutting my eyes at her. “We’re in this together. Now moving on, some things you need to know about old man Miller.”
“That’s kind of disrespectful, don’t you think?”
“Fuck.” I turn my head to stare into the darkness out my driver’s window. Shit. Nothing but black once we left the town lights behind. No moon. No stars. No houses on this stretch of road.
“What?” she demands.
I shove what remains of my second burger into my mouth. “Let me rephrase. Some things you need to know about Mr. Walter Miller. That’s his English name. He’s Cherokee. His given name is Waya, which means wolf. And he is. Strong, solitary. A lone wolf since his wife died.”
“I didn’t know.”
“So, when we get there, show respect by not looking him directly in the eyes and don’t speak first. Let him speak first.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I wouldn’t. Not on this. As a matter of fact, if you want to wow him, offer him a gift.”
She tilts her head. “Well, it would’ve been helpful to know that earlier.”
I shrug. “Just came to mind.”
“Empty handed as I am, what do you propose I give him.”
My eyes unwittingly drift from the steering wheel to her pink sweater. I’m certain she didn’t mean that as clever and sexual as it sounded, but I had to take a beat to check.
“Pull over.” She cracks the words out like a whip.
“Where?”
“At the Dollar General. Let me run in and get him something.”
“Look around. We’re fifteen minutes out of town. Besides, you wouldn’t know what to get.”
She peers at me like I’m some devil Grinch whose sole purpose is to fuck with her. “I’m sure I can find something in the vein of candy canes or Christmas cookies.”
“If you want Christmas cookies, there’s a country store about a mile up the road that sells homemade cookies.” I glance at the clock on the dash. “If we can get there before they close.”
Walter lives on the back side of Whispering Bear Mountain. Erika’s VW Beetle couldn’t make it here even in the summer. The road’s too rutted.
He’s waiting outside for us, sitting on a big log in his front yard with a roaring campfire in front of him, bundled up warm with a blanket around him. His hands grip a steaming mug.
Getting out of the truck, I look at the sky. I almost can’t see it for the low cloud cover. Looks like it could snow any minute now.
“Remember. Let him talk first. It’s his home and time we’re intruding on,” I whisper, my hand on Erika’s back, guiding her to Walter.
He watches our approach. If you look at him from the front, you won’t know that his hair hangs below his shoulder blades. He pulls it back tight and wears it braided, usually with a battered sun hat or ball cap.
I’d guess Walter’s late seventies give or take. His hair is mostly silver now. I remember when it was black.
His kids moved off to the cities, leaving him here with his wife, who died a slow, painful death of cancer. Watching her die did something to him.
No. Closing down the tree farm did more to him.
“Mr. Miller, I’m so glad to meet you,” Erika hurries his way.
Dammit. She not only speaks first—she’s looking him dead in the eyes when she does. Does she not listen?
I try to intercede, “I’m sorry, Walter—”
He holds up his hand, cutting me off. His eyes pierce Erika. “What is it you want, young lady?”
Her gaze flickers from Walter to me, and I see the fear on her face, illuminated by the fire blazing beside us. But I’ve got to give it to her… she grinds on. “I want you to re-open your Christmas tree farm. But this time, not for free. Make people pay.”
“And why would I do that?” Walter sips his hot drink from the Thermos mug, watching her over his cup.
“To help Blitzen get a new firetruck.”
He nods gently. His gaze narrows, zipping from her to me… back to her. “I’ll think about it.”
“But you don’t have time to think.”
Jeez.
I groan, “Walter, we can come back.”
“What’s your urgency, young lady?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Erika Amherst. You may know my great aunt—”
Again, he stops her with his hand. His voice is like gravel. I happen to know Walter smokes like a chimney. “You wouldn’t be here if I didn’t know who you are. Saw you last night. I know Josephine.”
This isn’t going well.
Erika makes her peace offering. “I brought you these.” She holds out her box, which Walter eyes but doesn’t reach for.
His gaze cuts into her. “Did you make them or buy them?”
Her gaze falls to the campfire as she answers apologetically, “I bought them.”
“Because Kourt here told you to. Right?”
She nods.
Walter looks at me. “She’s honest. I like that. Come back tomorrow and I’ll give you my answer.” He sets down his mug and pulls a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, digs into his pants for a lighter, and lights it.
He takes a deep draw and blows out smoke. “In the meantime, young lady—”
“Erika,” she interrupts. “Please.”
“Erika. Now that I think about it, there’s something I’d like to ask of you.
Will you incorporate the Cherokee tradition of the Calling of the Bears into this winter festival?
My wish is for our town’s Christmas celebration to recognize my people’s traditions, honoring the winter solstice as part of Blitzen’s heritage.
” He looks directly at me. “I think my wife would like that, Kourt. You?”
We share a long stare-off as chills crawl up my spine. “Yeah.”
“I’ll consider re-opening the Christmas tree farm, and you can set the price for the trees. All proceeds will go for the Blitzen Volunteer Fire Department.” He holds up his hand again, showing his wide palm.
Erika beams, peering from Walter to me, and claps her hands silently. “I can’t imagine a better idea. Thank you, Walter. I’m grateful to learn more about the Calling of the Bears.”
She’s so effusive, she reaches over and grabs Walter’s hands, squeezing them. “I’ll see you tomorrow? After settling everything with town hall?” She glances at me. “Could we Kourt?”
I nod. Jesus.
“Same time. Same place tomorrow,” Walter says. “I’ll have some warm cider for you.”
Erika turns to leave.
“You can leave those cookies.” Walter points at the log beside him.
I’ve got Walter, sitting by the campfire, in my rearview mirror when Erika shifts in her seat to face me. “How do we make the Calling of the Bears part of the festival? We have to get it right for him.”
Watching Walter sit alone as we drive away, my gut’s back at that campfire.
“Kourt?”
“Yeah.”
“Where were you? What’s wrong?” Her brows are knitted tight.
“Nothing. Calling of the Bears. First, it’s on the winter solstice so you’ll have to do that on December 21 st . They do a ceremony at dusk at the mouth of a cave, because they believe it’s the womb of Mother Earth.”
“That’s beautiful.”
“Yeah. Anyway, the Cherokee believe the Bear People transcend this world and the next. They’re believed to rest and dream in the cave during the winter.
On the winter solstice, the Cherokee people light a beacon fire to show the Bear People the way to the cave, and they leave offerings. Berries, honey, fish.”
She tweaks her mouth to the side, “‘To rest and dream in a cave.’ Wow. The imagery is magical. Like the idea of snow at night.”
“What?”
“You know. It’s one thing to dream of a white Christmas, but those rare moments when it snows during the night…
when you step outside at just the right moment to see a pitch-black night sky and all around you is blanketed in glittering white snow.
There’s an almost eerie peace about it. It looks like heaven on earth.
Surely that happens here in Kentucky.” She opts for sarcasm in the absence of my response.
“Almost every night in the winter.” I say it dryly as I look over at her.
Blue eyes pierce mine.
“I live higher up on the mountain than you do.”
A pause infiltrates the inside of my truck along with that vanilla cinnamon scent when she turns away from me first. The air grows thicker as if the heater’s gotten too hot.
I glance at her across the console, bundled in her white down coat and red scarf. At least this time she dressed for the weather. “So anyway, good luck finding a cave close enough to town. But, hey, you’re the creative one.”
“Well, you could help.”
That was a little snippy.
“I am helping. By the way, speaking of helping, why in the name of all things holy did you do the exact opposite of what I told you to do? You spoke first, looked him in the eye—Jesus.”
“I thought it went well.”
“You were going down in flames until you pulled out those cookies.”
“Looking people directly in the eye when you speak to them builds trust. Everyone knows this.” She shifts her shoulders away from me. “I was showing him respect.”
“Cherokee’s a different culture. To him, it was rude. And for Pete’s sake, the next time you see him, let him speak first. It’s their way.”
“Aren’t you critical and archaic.”
“I’m honest. That’s what I am. And you’re deaf, apparently.”
And dammit to hell, you smell like those fucking Christmas cookies. Warm vanilla and cinnamon. Did she move closer to me?
“Wow, Kourt.”
My ticker’s beating double time. “Why didn’t you listen to me? You want me to take you to these places, get you in to see these people to make your festival come true—and you don’t listen to my advice.”
She turns her head, peering out her window, her chin tilted high, muttering under her breath.
“What?”
She faces me with fire in her eyes. “You’re rude, Kourt McClain. You don’t know everything .”
I tilt my head and let out a good laugh. “Rude?” I shake my head. “Unbelievable. Un-fucking-believable. I know my friends and the people of this town.”
We ride in silence the rest of the way to the courthouse parking lot.
Her Beetle is parked right in front. The entire car is iced over. It must have sleeted over downtown while we were gone. The temperature is probably in the teens. She’d have hell getting her car door open, much less getting the engine to turn over.
I roll past the Beetle.
“Where are you going?” She all but shrieks, looking in the back window.
“Dropping you off at your house.”
“My car’s back there.”
I stop at the stop sign and square off with the little hellcat. “Your car won’t make it home. I have four-wheel drive. The roads are black ice. Listen to me, like you didn’t before. That Beetle won’t get you back to Josie’s house on this ice. You live in Chicago. You comprehend ice, right?”
“How will I get around? Tomorrow?” Panic is written on her face.
I make the turn, headed to Josie’s big house on the hill. Hell of a hilly town to be stranded on foot. In ice.
A heavy sigh dissolves in the passenger seat. “This won’t work.”
“Yeah, I know.”
She whips her head to glare at me. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, you can’t walk all over town and your car won’t navigate icy roads.”
“Well, Josie drove it, right?”
“Yeah, in the summer. She also had a four-wheel drive Range Rover with chains on the tires for winter.”
Her jaw drops as her gaze flicks left and right. “Where’s the Range Rover?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. I’ll swing by and pick you up in the morning on my way to work—drop you at your car at City Hall. The temps rising tomorrow morning so the next few days should warm up enough for you to drive your Beetle downtown and on the main roads in the daylight.”
“And every other time?” Erika looks at me appalled.
I toss a hand off the steering wheel, then take a fake bow.
I can’t be certain, but between my breaks squealing to a stop and her slamming the passenger door shut, I think we both muttered, “ Great, ” under our breaths.