Bear Trap

Bertram paused in front of the collection of trees that marked the trailhead and narrowed his eyes under the thick canopy of night. Autumn put daylight to bed early in her final days, but here the dense ground cover closed ranks alongside the mature elms and Eastern white pines, leaving the woods to exist in what felt like perpetual twilight.

Stubborn, thought Bertram, before reconsidering. No, he decided. Defiant. Survivors. Just like me. He ran one of his thick, calloused hands along the many peeling curls of bark adorning a nearby hickory, dressed in tatters like its brothers as winter approached. Not far now, he grimaced. Periodic twinges of pain in his joints pulsed down the length of his bones as the barometric pressure and forest temperature tumbled even further.

He could feel it. The signs. That was his gift. As sure as he knew the changes in weather, Bertram could always see the shift, the subtle tells in body or mood that warned him when it was time for him to move on and appear somewhere new. Bertram had learned to respect it as much as he relied on his arthritis to predict atmospheric events. The tensing shoulders, a furrowed brow, a sidelong glance and a pause just a fraction too long had awoken the talent this time. He had heard his gift whisper to him over the noisy hissing of the teapot of water boiling atop the fire keeping his little house warm. The detective who interviewed him earlier that day might not know for certain, but he suspected something. The man had departed, leaving behind words of gratitude for the answers Bertram had provided, but would return soon with a warrant, or something worse.

Bertram had watched the non-descript dark sedan edge its way backwards down the twisted and uneven road, front tires catching briefly in the sudden transition to the two-lane blacktop, reminiscent of a deathwatch beetle exiting the ruined and twisted tunnels of their own making into sudden sunlight, heralding tragedy for those in its wake. Right afterwards, Bertram had burned the scant traces of his presence in the rough fire pit at the edge of the clearing, the dry, seasoned cords of wood providing plenty of heat but little smoke for prying eyes to be concerned about.

As the crackling heat devoured each parcel, small motes of flame-tinged ash drifted upwards like tiny devils seeking asylum in heaven. Bertram rarely showed emotion, but he had chuckled at that; a mirthless bark of a laugh squeezed through the uneven grate of his mouth, sounding strange to his own ears. Is that where she and the others went? He paused, waiting, but any feelings behind the reflection flitted away like the tiny sparks that caught his attention. He glanced at the charred embers smoldering below in the pit. He had no illusions about his own destiny.

Even after replaying the scene in his mind, there was no telling what had alerted the detective. Bertrand had stuck to a simple script, a fine bit of alchemy with the right amount of honesty and misdirection. Yes, he had seen the missing girl. Yes, they had spoken off and on. No, he hadn’t any idea where she went. Yes, he would keep his eyes open and contact the detective if he saw or remembered anything important. He hadn’t been surprised by the scrutiny, only that his gift had seen the need to warn him. Just as in every other small mountain community he drifted to, Bertrand was the quiet oddity, a complete menagerie of one, subsisting in the margins of remote societies. The living areas were different, but the responses were always the same. People were equally attracted to and repulsed by him.

When he had finally gotten enough courage to ask her, his mother had explained that it was his eyes that caused people to react in a strong way to him. She said that his eyes were too dark and set too close together to be completely natural. The words she chose were specific. “Flat. Emotionless. Predatory.” Her lips had tightened as they did when she had eaten something sour.

When he turned 12-years-old, his mother had taken him to the zoo and pointed at the lions. One of the great beasts had come close to the glass enclosure and regarded him. Silent. Deadly. Watching. With his mouth dry and palms sweaty, Bertrand was fearful but too fascinated to turn away. His mother had seemed satisfied, nodding in her curt way. “Just look at them eyes, boy.” It was all she said at the only exhibit they had visited that day. Bertrand had returned, years later, to find that the lion had to be put down for escaping and taking a life. Uncanny, they said. He ran past a dozen people. It was like he had chosen that victim.

Bertram had learned the best way to avoid suspicion was to embrace it; to wear it like a set of odd-fitting winter clothing; something heavy and uncomfortable but necessary in order to endure. Bertrand was built for the solitude that the mountain and forest living demanded. He was a master of odd jobs and survival. His cunning mind just seemed to understand how things fit together. He had little interest in idle conversation and less in social activities. He might have languished in a city, but on the outskirts, he thrived. It was his territory. People who stayed in those places savored their privacy and their secrets. They wouldn’t ask questions that they were uncomfortable answering themselves. Bertram stayed in the shadows of tall trees but was always present to meet predictable needs; appearing in order to fix chainsaws, patch stubborn leaks and repair the vital machines that made forest life possible.

The simple act of posting on the community board meant that an odd job was as good as done. Although he was rarely spotted outside of a delivery, Bertrand seemed to always be watching for a new task. Transactions with the large and quiet man were simple, no nonsense, even boring. He was recognized by everyone but known by no one; visibly invisible, there until he wasn’t, when the signs – no, his gift, told him to move away again. Communities did not realize he was gone until the small jobs piled up, at which point there was no finding him. Nothing of note was ever left behind.

Bertram shook his head. It wasn’t like him to get so lost in his thoughts, especially of his own past. That encounter with the detective had shaken him. He had to be careful now, mindful of the traps placed by his own hands. Bear traps. Jagged sentinels of slumbering death designed to punish any human or beast that found his trophy hut. Judging by the speed the detective had used on the blacktop, there was probably no time to remove them and take them for use at his next destination. At 48 pounds each, carrying more than one was too cumbersome. He would find more traps in the next community, patient as always, taking what he needed from those he did odd jobs for as usual. The traps were not the treasure he sought here. His gift urged him to hurry. Bertram nodded. He would secure the small bag and vanish within the shaggy arms of the forest.

He halted near the dilapidated log shelter, sweating now despite the ever-present cold. The frigid air bent against him like a machine press brought to bear against a resistant piece of metal, then abandoned while locked in place. His gift allowed him to outrun people and his past but could do nothing about age. Time was the ultimate predator and had stalked him relentlessly, marking him in some new way every year. He had lost his stamina and some of his once fearsome strength, but his cunning way of thinking offset the growing impotence he felt in other areas. Pride bloomed in the fertile soil of his thought. He had gotten better. His mouth twitched, forming what could pass for him as a grin in the frigid darkness. Aging was inevitable but working with the challenges associated with growing older just presented odd jobs that needed to be solved within himself.

Time seemed to stumble into him as he suddenly froze in place. Years of carefully honed survival instinct locked him in mid step, his lips still upturned, raspy breathing stilled, with one heavy boot hovering over the threshold. His dark eyes, already adjusted to the gloom, moved swiftly, striking every shadowy corner of the abandoned structure. It took him nearly a full minute to find the eyes that stared back at him. Cold, clinical, predatory. The barn owl’s pale, wide face reflected the scant moonlight that the forest grudgingly allowed to filter through the uneven gaps of wood in the rafters.

In the stillness of that moment, 12-year-old Bertrand stood once again at the enclosure, small and vulnerable, tethered to the present only by the unwavering gaze of death’s hooded avatar. The ghostly apparition in this vision seemed to multiply, with one, now two additional copies emerging alongside the first. He could not look away. Each dispassionate face regarded him in similar fashion, the weight of their stares pressed down on him in a way that even the cold never could. He felt as though their unblinking eyes had gripped him, claw-like, locking him in place, ready to swallow his blackened soul whole and vomit him up as a lifeless husk.

Thought and reason fled. In one fluid motion, as his raised foot landed on the uneven floor, Bertrand hurled the heavy knife that he carried with him everywhere at the terrible eyes. His gift was screaming at him now. His temples pounded. His throat tightened. He had to get out. Time rushed forward again, and he lurched forward awkwardly with the sudden reconnection to his other senses. He retrieved the bag subconsciously, bursting back through the open door, his feet skidding on the decaying Fall detritus much like the detective’s wheels had done while seeking purchase on the blacktop. The ragged arms of the forest were close, reaching out to take him somewhere new.

He never saw the phantasmal shape above him; never heard the gossamer wings slicing through the still, cold air. It was as though a pale arrow had been fired from the unerring bow of a vengeful god. Heavy claws raked the back of his head, drawing his blood. Bertrand pinwheeled sideways, arms flailing as he careened into the bracken. His reeling mind struggled to catch up, and he heard the heavy jaws a split second before feeling the 48 pounds of malleable steel fangs tear into his lower leg with enough force to almost remove it completely from the rest of his body. The howl that tore its way out of Bertrand’s throat was the loudest sound he had uttered in a lifetime; a primal, guttural, agonizing groan that seemed to rise in crescendo along with the blinding and unending pain that savaged him.

Still, Bertrand was a survivor. Unsteady hands reached for his knife, but he was determined to do what needed to be done to escape this deathtrap of his own making. A pool grew beneath him. Time pushed further beyond his desperate reach with each labored heartbeat. Panic joined the bile in his throat. No amount of frantic patting could produce the heavy weapon from his clothing. It was some moments before he finally cast his eyes back to the forest shack, now a shadowy silhouette rising up behind him in the dark reminiscent of a graveyard mausoleum. He had never retrieved his knife. It was lost, buried somewhere deep within the decaying wood of the rafters.

His gaze shifted. The barn owl had landed on a high branch of a nearby elm tree to observe him. Her oval face was expressionless, but her dark eyes glinted with something he understood. Bertrand swallowed. He was so cold. Bertrand sobbed then, the weight of it all striking down at him with a terrible final blow. For many minutes, his chest jerked back and forth in the violent spasms. There was no strength left to do more. As he closed his eyes, his gift nudged him. He had been right about the detective. In the gaps between the trees, he could just make out the faint yips and barks of the search dogs baying with excitement as they led their handlers methodically through the dense foliage.