The Bear Went Over the Mountain Read Online Free PDF

only be her old man coming home. It’s dark, and Mavis never had sharp eyes. She hands her baby over the fence, says, ‘Take him inside, he’s cold.’ Only it wasn’t her old man, it was a bear.” Pinette took off his cap and scratched his head, the story apparently concluded.
    “And what happened to the child?”
    “Bear et it, likely.”
    They rode in silence for several miles, Bramhall returning his gaze to the forest. He saw the glimmer of a pond through the trees, saw burnished twilight on the hillside above it,and a longing filled him, to be there, to see the beavers roll their wheel, but more important, to have them look at him, their eyes glinting, signaling.
    “I believe your story is up ahead, at Armand LeBlond’s place,” said Pinette, and pulled his truck into the LeBlond driveway. The door to the farmhouse opened and a woman stepped out. “Armand’s mother-in-law, Ada Sleeper,” said Pinette meaningfully as he and Bramhall climbed from the truck, Bramhall mindful of a nearby fence, which was humming with electricity.
    “How you keeping, Ada?” asked Pinette.
    “Just fine, Vinal.” Following this reply, a strange sound emanated from Ada Sleeper’s throat, like the cackling of a hen. And then her voice became normal again. “Armand’s in the south meadow. He’ll be back soon.”
    “And Janetta?”
    “In the barn,” said Ada, the hen-cackle sounding in her throat once more. “Janetta!”
    A young woman came out from the barn. Behind her Bramhall saw lighted stalls and the forms of cows.
    “Company, Janetta,” announced Ada with cackle.
    Janetta LeBlond came across the yard, smiling tentatively at the two men. Introductions were made, and Pinette engaged her in conversation, during which he several times sent knowing nods toward Bramhall, whose significance Bramhall failed to understand. Then ArmandLeBlond came across the field, and Pinette and Bramhall went to meet him. “How’re you, mah friend?” asked LeBlond in a buoyant Maine-French accent.
    “I brung this feller to see you, Armand. He’s a writer looking for a story.”
    LeBlond drew out a pouch of tobacco and paper and rolled himself a cigarette whose ragged ends ignited in a sputtering rush of flame. He glanced at Bramhall. “You talk to Mudder-in-Law, you hear how she sound like chicken?”
    “I did notice, yes,” said Bramhall.
    “Well, Janetta used to sound like chicken too. It run in dat family.” LeBlond puffed on his homemade cigarette thoughtfully. “Very queer damn business. But den one night, Janetta had too much to drink and she c’lapse into mah fence.” He pointed to it, and the fence seemed to hum slightly louder, making a chord, as if proud of the part it had played.
    “She musta spent too much time hanging there,” explained Pinette, “because it took the cackle right out of ’er.”
    “Den de old woman want to t’row herself against dat fence too, get rid of cackle same way. But I tell her, dere’s no one like you wid chickens, Mudder-in-Law.” As LeBlond said this, Bramhall noticed that several chickens were devotedly following Ada, clucking up against herankles. LeBlond turned to Bramhall. “I give you dozen eggs, you tell me. Best damn eggs you ever eat, I bet.”
    The three men stood quietly then, as the last light of the day was lost over the fields. Later, in the truck, with a bowl of eggs on the seat between himself and Bramhall, Pinette said, “A remarkable true story, Art, which I believe has all the trimmings.”
    Bramhall picked up one of the eggs and cradled it softly in his palm. Then he put its cool surface against his slightly fevered forehead. It had a soothing effect.
    “Porkapine going,” said Pinette, nodding ahead of them, where the ambling creature was caught in the headlights of the slowing vehicle. Its eyes gleamed, and Bramhall got out of the truck while it was still moving. He followed the porcupine across the road, which caused it to raise its quills defensively. It