Page 69 of The Woodcarver's Model
“The Peak!” Maggie responded. “It’s a bald knob. Nothing to get in its way.”
“We’ll take him there,” said Frank. “Guys, unhook the rig and clear out the back of the truck.”
Philippe and Marco leapt to it.
“And someone get that fuckin’ gun away from the kid,” Frank said as he ran to the truck to radio for help.
“We’ll need something we can use as a stretcher,” Sheila added.
Marco was already dumping soil samples from a long wooden core box. “This’ll do,” he said, running it over to Eric’s side.
“We’ll need to make sure that Eric can maintain pressure on the wound when we lift him onto the crate.” Sheila coordinated the move with the help of Marco, Philippe and a couple of the strongest islanders. They were able to get Rob onto the makeshift stretcher without too much additional blood loss.
As they carried the body to the truck, Ricky piped up with a “Hey, can I give a hand?” Maggie and a few others who had been watching as Rob’s blood-soaked, ashen face was whisked by took Ricky by the arms and pulled him away.
“The chopper will be there in five minutes,” Frank reported.
“I was aiming for the bear. He ran in the way. You all saw it. It wasn’t my fault. He got in the way. I was trying to save you all from the bear before it attacked.”
“Someone put him in a car,” Maggie ordered. “We’ll lock him up at my place until the RCMP can get here.”
Eric never for a moment released pressure on the wound as Rob was placed carefully in the back of the truck. Sheila crawled into the cargo area with them as the guys who carried the stretcher joined Frank up front for the cautious drive up to the Peak.
* * * *
Maggie and Francis took Ricky, who sat in the back of Maggie’s car, hands bound with gauze bandaging, back to Maggie’s house where they locked him in the large pantry with a ham sandwich and glass of milk.
“You did see it, didn’t you?”
“What?” Francis asked.
“The bear? It was huge, wasn’t it?”
Neither of them answered.
* * * *
Back on the mountain road, Frances waited until the others had gone, and the helicopter had flown overhead.Things are in God’s hands now,she thought. The islanders had done all they could.
She walked back to her car and reflected on what had happened that afternoon. She wasn’t the kind of person who was brought to tears often but, once she had seated herself in her old Mini, she began to cry. She pictured that poor boy running towards the brush, for what reason, who knew? And the other one, the one who seemed to be simple, who pulled the trigger…and for what? A bear? Like Sheila had said—there hadn’t been a bear on the island for decades.What could he have been goin’ on about?
She started the car and slowly made her way down Peak Road.
* * * *
In the fog that enveloped his brain, Mitch remembered hearing what he thought was a crowd of people, of someone yelling “Bear,” followed by what sounded like a gunshot. Was someone hunting on the island? That didn’t make sense.
He longed for solitude and apparently, he was not going to find it here. He moved down the mountain, away from the sound of the people he did not see, or care to. Away from the helicopter buzzing overhead. Away from the Peak. He took it as a sign—it was time to go home, a place where he could reflect on all he had experienced while up on the mountain.
* * * *
Mitch walked into his house and looked around. He vaguely remembered leaving the door open. He wandered around, taking in the rooms, picking up a few items here and there, putting them back in place or tossing them out onto the porch—like Rufus’ old blanket by the fireplace, and a few of Kevin’s things. He had no need for them now. He came across one of Rob’s sweaters. It was the soft grey one knit from merino wool. He was about to throw it out when he gave it a second thought and put it on. He was cold.
He went into the kitchen and threw most of the food out. It was time to start over. He found an apple that he devoured and a piece of cheese that hadn’t gone mouldy yet. Everything else was either there because of Rob or Kevin.
The cleaning went on until late in the evening when, after lighting a fire and pouring himself a glass of wine, Mitch settled into his chair and watched the flames dance.
As a child, he could watch fires for hours. They were alive, always changing. They offered both comfort and pain, provided security and destruction. His father would joke that he and Mitch’s mom wondered if they should be concerned about whether they were raising an arsonist.
