Page 19 of The Boy Who Cried Bear
Dalton’s brother, Jacob, lives out here, just as their parents had. Jacob is now with one of Rockton’s former residents, Nicole, and they have a baby boy. When winter comes, they’ll be moving into Haven’s Rock, at least until little Stephen is older. There’s also a former sheriff of Rockton—Tyrone Cypher—living out here along with his Rockton girlfriend, Jen. And they are far from the only people in these woods.
When Dalton doesn’t comment, I say, “With any luck, having seen multiple groups of people, he’s already moved on. This won’t be where he wants to spend his winter.”
Dalton only nods.
I reach to scratch behind Storm’s ears. “You’re thinking of the hostiles.”
He grunts. Then he shakes his head. “Can’t be them. They’re gone, and we’re too far away.”
“Which means it’s unlikely, but not impossible. If it is a hostile, that actually makes this easier. We can call in Émilie to get him down south for help.”
The hostiles had been Rockton’s “wild people of the woods.” Dalton grew up thinking they were just a fact of life, like bears and wolves. There were wild people in the forest, dangerous people, and you avoided them.
The story was that they were exactly what the miners think this guy is—someone who retreated into the forest and lost his human self, reverting to something feral. That might be the Lord of the Flies narrative, but people don’t usually do that unless there’s an underlying mental issue. For a whole group to do that…? I hadn’t bought the story. We’d investigated and solved the mystery, and the hostiles have been taken south for treatment.
Could there be one remaining? Absolutely. Could he have wandered this way? Sure—Jacob and others move much farther in their seasonal travels. Could we have coincidentally ended up in the same area as the lone hostile holdout? That’s unlikely, but not impossible.
It’s more likely that this is just an ordinary resident of the deep Yukon wilderness. One who has gone a little more “mountain man” than most. The bearskin is almost certainly an affectation. Something he saw once in a movie and thought it looked cool.
It’s also possible he’s mentally ill, and Dalton and I discuss that. I’d hesitate saying it in front of others, because for many people “mentally ill” means dangerous, when all I mean is that he could have any number of issues that might lead him to a lone life in the forest, and only a subset of those render him an actual threat.
He did apparently threaten the miner with a knife. But we’re still unclear on whether it constituted an actual attack. Out here, it’s not unusual for encounters to involve threat displays, whether you’re dealing with humans or animals.
We often approach a stranger with our gun in hand, not raised, but being clear we are armed. I’d like to know exactly how serious this “attack” had been, but for that, I’d need to interview the witness, and that’s not happening.
“We should stop by Lilith’s cabin,” I say. “See if she’s seen anything … and warn her if she hasn’t.”
* * *
Lilith lives at the foot of the mountain. As I said, we’d never have spotted her cabin unless we stumbled over it. Even following her trail here in the spring, I didn’t see it. Dalton had, his gaze being better attuned to irregularities in the landscape.
I’ve never been inside her tiny cabin, but I know there’s a darkroom, so I’m presuming the rest is like a studio apartment. Up here, economy of size is an absolute must for winter. Our chalet is about a thousand square feet, and that’s positively palatial. It’s only possible with top-notch insulating—sixteen-inch-thick walls and quadruple-paned windows. People living in the forest don’t have those options, so their cabins are minuscule, which also helps Lilith’s place disappear.
Even now, approaching it and squinting, I struggle to see the shape against the forest. She’s avoided sharp and regular angles, and the roof is low and sloping. When I do see it, I smile, as if I’ve spotted the last item in a hidden-object game. I also smile at the cabin itself. It looks like a witch’s hut, with the sod roof and vines and forest critters. The critters are fake—painted on—but no less charming for it.
I’m walking toward the cabin, about to call a welcome, when Dalton grabs my arm. I don’t even have time to look over before a snarling gray wolf erupts from the forest. Dalton yanks me behind him. Even Storm falters. She’d been ambling along, smelling the wolf up ahead but unconcerned. It’s just Nero, her friend. The two don’t exactly gambol together—the way Storm does with Mathias’s wolf-dog, Raoul—but they enjoy each other’s company. The canine equivalent of adult friends rather than childhood playmates.
When Nero bursts out, snarling, Storm only stares. Her nostrils flare, as if checking that this is indeed the wolf she knows, because he certainly isn’t acting like calm, dignified Nero.
When he lunges at her, any hesitation evaporates, and she snaps and snarls, her front legs digging in as her head lowers.
“Back up,” Dalton murmurs, his eyes never leaving the wolf.
“Nero,” I say as calmly as I can. “We’re going to back up now.”
Yes, I know the wolf can’t understand me. It’s the tone I want to convey, calm and nonthreatening.
We take three steps backward. Storm holds her ground, snarling, until I call her, and then she awkwardly backs up, not wanting to turn away from him.
“Lilith?” I call.
No answer.
Nero stays where he is, near the edge of the cabin. He’s stopped growling and just stands there, guarding his person and her home.
“Lilith!” I call louder.
Dalton gives it a try. Still no response.
