Read Online Elle by Douglas Glover - Free Book Online Page B

difficult to discern the identity of the other. I have the advantage of the bear for having seen other bears. But the bear has never seen a French woman dressed up in pillows before. In a situation like this, the smell of Richard’s flesh is tantalizingly familiar.
    Bear, I say, raising one finger for emphasis, as priests do when they sermonize. Pay attention, bear. I grab a tuft of fur, give it jerk. It comes away in my hand. Oh, bear —, I say. But the bear, apparently taking my point, whirls round to face me.
    Her mewing modulates into a rumble. Black lips curling back, she snarls, then opens her cavernous mouth and roars. I have time to notice her worn-out teeth, bleeding gums and truly rancid breath before she lurches onto her hind legs, her torn foot pawing the air above her head in imitation of my raised finger. Her great roar vibrates over the island, sets my head ringing. The sound is black and terrible. It goes on and on. Then suddenly she falls upon me, those enormous jaws ready to tear me asunder.
    I have an instant to say a prayer. I think of confessing, but, really, where to begin? Something general and easy. God, forgive me. I was a bad girl. But I’m not dead. Being eaten by a bear seems oddly painless. I can still hear a dog barking. The bear is embracing me, not eating me. She’s very heavy. Perhaps she plans to crush me to death. Then I realize she is dead. Her eyes are closed as if in sleep. Her breathing has stopped. She seems very calm, enviably so.
    It takes me some time to wriggle out from under her, and I lose several of my feather bags in the process. I place a hand upon her breast, but it is still. Yet warm. What fur she has left conserves her body heat. I crawl (legs fail me again) to the hut and rummage around till I find the sword. Then I hurry back to the bear, thinking what a wonderful warm coat she will make. It is a difficult feat, but I manage to roll her on her side and slice into her at the breast, where I had placed my hand. The sword is dull and inadequate for the purpose. It takes me an hour to saw from her chin to her crotch. I reach in (as I have seen hunters do), drag out the bags and ropes of her guts and leave them steaming on the snow. I find her liver, like a slab of jellied blood. At first it makes me gag, but then I savour it.
    Oh, bear, I think. Now I will eat you, and we will knowtogether the difference between being and nothingness. And you shall be another mother to me.
    I find her heart, not as large as I had expected, covered with fat. All muscle and hard to tear with my teeth. All at once, I am tired, sated with a few bites, languorous in the setting sun. Cold, too, because I have lost my feather bags. On an impulse born of the moment and the sight of those steaming guts, I gather sword, heart and liver, lift the flap of her belly wound and slip inside. I am suddenly warm, warmer than I have been in months, maybe warmer than I have been since my first (and otherwise useless) mother gave birth to me. I suck the liver and pull the bear’s belly close around me.
    Oh, bear, I think. Oh, my saviour bear. Then I forget myself and thank the Lord Cudragny for his bounty and fall asleep and dream I am a bear, young and strong, hunting seals along some distant arctic coastline.
    When I awake, I am still warm, soaked in blood and juices. But some movement has disturbed me, roused me. I notice the edge of the bear’s belly being lifted from outside, a shaft of grey light beyond, something sniffing (chuff-chuff) at the hole. I grasp the sword in my fist and slide out into the snow.
    Stars and moonlight and moonlight reflected off the ice — bright as a dull day. Someone’s feet loom before my face. Feet clad in fur, standing on two tennis racquets. Strange, I think. Then there is a dog’s face, big as a bear. I’m still dreaming, I think. But the dog licks my face. He seems pleased to see me, seems, indeed, to recognize me. I reach up and catch