Assuming, that is, he lived long enough to see the light of another day.
CHAPTER 30
Ignorance may be bliss, but it is still ignorance, and Kit, hoofing through the night-dark valley, had not the slightest twinge or premonition of the danger into which he had blithely wandered. To give him a little credit, Kit saw the three black humps beside the river, but took them for stones-one large, two slightly smaller: boulders in a field of boulders strewn along the river path. It was not until an unseen fourth stone, off to his right, reared up on its hind legs that he realised his mistake.
By then he had already passed the point of no return.
It was a bear, black as an ink stain, beady little eyes glinting in the wan light of a fading moon as it swung its head left and right to pick up the human scent that had aroused it from a midnight snack of crayfish and clams. There were, as Kit now understood, four of them-a mother and three half-grown cubs. And without knowing it, he had made the most elementary error-the one transgression every schoolkid on a field trip is warned against committing in the wild: never get between a mother and her young.
Scenting him, the bear gave out a half-strangled cry of alarm as it stood motionless. A scant few-dozen paces across the field of stones, the mother bear’s massive head came up sharply in response to her bawling infant. The great dark muzzle swung first one way and then the other as the creature homed in on him, nostrils twitching. Then, rising on its hind legs, it spread its massive arms, opened its toothy maw, and loosed with a roar to shake the stars from the heavens. The raw, feral snarl of an enraged meat-eater loosened Kit’s bowels, instantly giving the animal a new and more pungent scent to follow.
The great beast shuffled forward on its hind legs-a move Kit missed because he was by then frantically searching for a tree to climb. Unfortunately, the only trees near enough to offer sufficient shelter were behind the bear that was even now gathering itself to charge. When the animal roared again, Kit was already backpedaling, making for what he imagined was the safety of the wood behind him- too far behind him.
There was no better option. He turned around and within three steps was in full arm-flapping retreat.
Kit ran with the abandon of the truly desperate, scrambling over rocks large and small, stumbling, splashing, banging his knees and shins, picking himself up and floundering on over the lumpy, treacherous ground. The bear had no such difficulty. It surged ahead with the fluid momentum of a runaway freight train, gathering pace with every step. The smaller bears joined in the chase.
A stand of slender white birches stood shimmering in the moonlight a few hundred paces away. If he could make it to the grove, Kit imagined it just might slow the animals down long enough for him to find a tree big enough to climb. Gulping air, he drove himself to greater speed, willing strength to his legs and fleet to his feet. And for a moment it seemed as if he actually gained some ground on the pursuing beasts.
Alas, whatever imagined advantage Kit might have enjoyed was instantly lost when, skittering over the uneven surface, his foot slipped on a moss-slick stone and he fell hard, whacking his chin on the river rocks. Mother Bear was on him before he could get his feet under him again. Squirming onto his back, he faced the beast, kicking and screaming as if that might drive the enraged animal away.
The bear, seeing its quarry helpless on the ground, reared for the final assault, jaws wide, claws extended. It made a mighty sweep with one great, death-dealing paw. Kit anticipated the blow and rolled to one side, narrowly avoiding having his entire stomach ripped open.
He shouted and kicked out blindly. The toe of his shoe struck a leg solid as a tree trunk.
Astonishingly, that kick appeared to confuse the bear. It paused midlunge and shook its shaggy head. Emboldened by this unwarranted success, Kit kicked again. The blow was accompanied by a loud, meaty chunk. The bear reared back.
Before Kit could launch another kick, there was another thunk, and another. The bear swiped at the empty air, and fist-sized stones began to rain all around. Thick and fast they came. Striking, glancing, bouncing as they smacked mercilessly into the animal’s bulky frame.
The bear staggered back in confusion, and Kit heard a sudden loud cry erupt behind him; he twisted his head around to see three primitives break from the birch grove, all with fist-sized river rocks in their hands, and all shouting and heaving stones as they ran, throwing with unerring accuracy; every missile struck home with a satisfying thump.
The great ferocious beast cowered under the attack. After being struck a few times on the head and chest, it turned, lowered itself to all fours, and beat a hasty retreat, crying for its cubs to follow. The young bears did not wait for the stones to begin falling on them. They hightailed it after their mother, mewling all the way.
Then hands were thrust beneath Kit’s shoulders, and he was hauled to his feet by his armpits. While two other primitives continued to hurl stones at the fleeing bears, Big Hunter patted Kit around the body as if feeling for wounds.
“I’m okay,” Kit told him, knowing full well he would not be understood. “I’m only a little skinned up. It’s okay.” He gripped the heavy hand. “I’m all right.”
This brought a response from Big Hunter, who ceased pawing at him. “Gangor,” he said, plain as day, his voice coming from somewhere deep inside him. It was the first word, if word it was, that Kit understood. He said it again and pointed to the bears.
“Gan-gor,” Kit said, trying to repeat the sound of the word as near as he was able.
Big Hunter’s eyes went wide with amazed delight. He called to the other primitives, and when they had returned and gathered around, he said the word again, looking at Kit with an expression of anticipation. “Gangor,” said Kit, eager to oblige.
The effect was electric. All three primitives began jabbering at once and patting him-stroking him like a dog that has just learned a new trick. Kit endured this enthusiastic buffeting. “No, really. It was nothing,” he told them. Turning to Big Hunter, he pressed the primitive’s hand. “Thank you.” He gazed into the bearded faces around him and, with all the sincerity he could muster, said, “Thank you all for saving me.”
The celebration finished and the primitives started back to the settlement. Through gestures and proddings they gave Kit to know that they expected him to accompany them. But Kit had a better idea.
“No, wait!” he insisted, planting his feet. Stepping quickly behind the nearest bush, he removed his soiled underwear and, with some regret, left them. He washed as best he could in the shallow stream, then emerged from the bush to rejoin the party. Pointing up the valley, he indicated one of the tiered ledges of the gorge and said, “I need to check on something.” He knew full well that there was not the shred of a chance that any of them would understand him, but it was a relief to talk and he harboured the small hope that he might make them understand-in the manner of British tourists abroad who, not knowing the local patois, just speak English-but loudly. “Up there. I have to go there. Won’t take a minute.” Kit spread his arms and then drew a circle that included them all. “You can come with me. In fact, I hope you will.” He turned and made a show of starting off. “Come on!” He made a sweep of his arm as if calling the start to a marathon. “Let’s go, chaps!”