8-09-2025 12:34am

Kenneth McLeod's Story a Fanciful Adventure Among Bruins

Lesley Misko Editor

"Barely Spring," acrylic by Jenny Montes

[Editor’s Note: Area writers were invited to submit poetry and/or prose to Studio B Art Gallery’s summer project “The Three Bears.” Writers were challenged to respond to the meanings of the words “bear” and “bare,” the Bear Fever sculptures or an aspect or theme from the fairy tale “Goldilocks & the Three Bears.” We hope you will enjoy the wide-ranging responses to the challenging theme.]

BEARING RESEMBLANCE

By Kenneth McLeod

FROM THE JOURNAL OF CAPTAIN HORATIO GRIMM OF THE INTERSTELLAR MINING SHIP BABYDRILLE, I.M.C. (Infinite Musk Corporation)

We were more than delighted with the accuracy of the report by the previous surveyors. Planet Polaris III is in a perfect orbit in the “Goldilocks Zone”, not too far from its sun, nor too close to be habitable by Man. Even the atmosphere’s composition is of a mixture making breathing apparatus unnecessary.

Pollution levels suggest a preindustrial civilization, with the surveyors reporting the natives’ awareness of other civilizations in the galaxy. Yet our first inclination to make a major public landing to introduce ourselves was abandoned by a disturbing sight sent from our camera drones.

The dice of evolution has awarded the genus Ursis, or bear, as the dominant species of the planet. Thus, though its cultural activities may parallel those of us humans, they are not necessarily humane.

At one of the larger villages under surveillance we saw a ritual in which bears were gathered around a tall pole with a long tether fastened to a human being, a secondary in the Darwinian hierarchy of this world. The taunting, poking and torment of the man by the crowd of bears dressed in festival garb gave us second thoughts about any spectacular arrival. After a conference meeting, it was decided that we make a landing in a quiet, remote location to decide on our next step.

We set foot in a mountainous region of the northern hemisphere. I must confess to be awed by the vistas and thunderous rivers that recalled the American wilderness of the earth’s ancient past. And as reported, the terrain contained a wealth of precious lithium that was almost off the scale of our sensors.

We followed a tributary which we knew led to a small town built about a primitive academy of learning. It seemed a choice less benighted or barbaric than the “bro-baiting” communities we had observed.

The first test of our judgement came along a stony bank. A native of generous size was scooping fish out of the currents next to a hill of bloody seafood almost as tall as itself. Crewmember Carlsberg, an environmentalist of good humor, approached the gluttonous hunter with open arms and a lingual translator.

“Hey,” he said with a smile, “How about them Cubs last season?”

Whether Carlsberg’s body language or the beast’s ignorance of major league baseball was what infuriated it was irrelevant; we had no choice but to meet its murderous charge with tranquilizer guns. We watched as with labored breath it drew a small gun from an equipment belt and fired a flare into the sky.

For twenty minutes we awaited a response to the signal. Then from a wall of trees approached a tall figure. It was another bear, this one shirtless, in jeans, hiking boots and a broad-brimmed hat with the name “S. BEAR” embossed on a metal plate at the hat band. Although it carried a shovel over its shoulder, the figure, apparently a forest warden of sorts, held it as a symbol of office rather than as a weapon.

After checking the unconscious fisher-bear’s condition, “Ranger Bear”, as I shall refer to him, summoned helpers on his walkie talkie. An official of few words, he then pointed at Carlsberg and myself and in a basso profundo voice indicated, “Only you.”

In the name of diplomacy we left the rest of our party and accommodated the local authorities by riding into town in a cage on the back of a jeep as another jeep transported the fisher-bear to a local clinic.

It was our good fortune that the society had developed to the point of legal precedents and procedures. In no time we were both sitting with Ranger Bear in the office of the chief magistrate. Joining us was a legal professor hastily summoned from the academy to speak on our behalf:

Winston D. Pooh was a short, orange-furred bear in a red shirt and no pants–a professorial eccentricity, perhaps?–who had apparently had his lunchtime interrupted, evidenced by the thick ceramic jar of honey in his lap and a preoccupation with the entrapment of his wrist in the jar’s mouth.

If our advocate was pudgy, the chief magistrate was mountainous, spending this noontime behind his desk leisurely crunching a long stalk of bamboo in the corner of its mouth. There was a completeness to the picture as I observed the black patches at the white bear’s eyes and ears, along with the tomes of Confucius left as a gift by the surveyors on the bookshelf behind him.

In discussion we were all in agreement that the ranger’s description of footprints at the fight scene indicated a matter of self-defense, but he couldn’t confirm why the fisher-bear resorted to violence. The crunching of bamboo ceased for a moment:

“Real knowledge is to know the extent of one's ignorance,” the panda pontificated.

Excusing himself after a small belch, Professor Pooh also pointed out that technically, the attack occurred after man-hunting season was over. The ranger regretted having to go inform the attacker of their lack of grievance in the matter.

“The bitterest way of learning wisdom is by experience,” the panda said, nodding. I looked at Carlberg, who could only respond with a puzzled shrug.

All in all, it was a productive close encounter. We parted with the clasping of paws and hands. The magistrate had the makings of a natural diplomat, and you will receive my recommendations for him in that position in due course.

We returned to the ship with aspirational spirits. The planet's riches in lithium insure a second life to our mined-out earth. The elite of this planet can midwife the primitive strata of this civilization to a post-industrial dependence that promises a perpetual working class. Our ethnobiology department can designate the planet’s humans as a subspecies of lesser humans, sparing us any humanitarian qualms. Polaris III promises to make us the Goldilocks of Ursa Major.

Yet I feel it my responsibility to recount a dissension. Carlberg has pointed out that the fisher-bear’s attack was a moment of animal behavior he found ominous. The mountain of fish the ursid had built was made of what it couldn’t eat. In preparing for hibernation, a bear can continue a feeding frenzy long after it’s become full, piling up a mountain of fish that it’s still killing. It is driven, madly, to consume far past its necessity.

I have served the IMC since I was a Space Force cadet. We’ve hollowed out countless moons and planets of their ore. I knew what my crewman was thinking. Yet I insisted he speak it.

“I see a mountain of lithium,” he said wryly, “It bears resemblance.”

END

Kenneth McLeod: Lived in Maryland, past and present…a land of living pleasant. Lived in D.C., where everyone knows many emperors try selling new clothes. Back to Maryland for Mom’s care, ‘til she passed on to who-knows-where. Since retired, I now play with prose.