Wabanaki Blues by Melissa Tantaquidgeon Zobel Page B

killer-terror. So much for my friendly woods. The creature’s voice grumbles like a 1970s muscle car. I quake from head to toe. My eyes begin to clear, and I see what this thing looks like.
    What I’m facing is not Chenoo. It’s a bear’s rump and it’s enormous. Chenoo might have been better. I pat my thumping heart to keep it from breaking through my heaving chest. Grumps’ fantasy about friendly bears is absurd. I was insane to feel safe in these woods. This thing will turn around and start mauling me any second now. I hate bananas. Thanks to them, my life will end at seventeen. I mentally say good-bye to Lizzy, Beetle, and my guitar, Rosalita. At least I left her inside where she’s safe. After I’m gone, I hope my parents don’t give her to Lizzy. Her finger work sucks, her turnarounds bite, and she doesn’t get the blues. But they probably will give her my guitar because they always exercise poor judgment. Look at their neglect in leaving me here. The thick scent of animal musk gags me. I picture our Mohegan chief offering the eulogy at my funeral. I see her searching for words to avoid stating the butt-obvious: that a foolish Indian girl died because she wasn’t paying attention when she went frolicking in the northern woods and got eaten by a bear.
    Amidst the mourners—who are far fewer than normal for a funeral on the Mohegan Reservation—I notice Rasima cuddling Beetle. She pulls him closer, and closer.…
    Adrenaline shoots through me. I pull myself together and focus on finding a solution to this problem as if it’s the last five minutes of my algebra final. Sadly, the only idea I come up with is begging Bilki for help.
    She responds to my supplication with the words: “Thankfulness is the most important virtue.”
    Really? That’s all I get in this emergency? I understand that she wants me to appreciate the fact that I’m still alive, and that this bear has not immediately turned and torn me to pieces, or risen up on its two hind legs and roared, or made a single threatening gesture. Wait! Come to think of it, the creature hasn’t budged.
    A cautious optimism creeps into my mind. Why would this woodland animal like me any less than the others who greeted me like one of its own when I arrived? Plus, a bear bumping into a human being is like me tripping over a puppy, or more likely, a hamster. I suddenly feel sympathetic toward household pets. A warm mist rises off the bear’s sleek back, which is flecked with hairs ranging from chocolate to toffee-colored. Apparently, black bears are not always black. The creature gracefully ambles around to eye me, still on all fours. A shock of blond fur pokes out from the top of its head like a bad punk rock dye job.
    Its ears pop up like soft round homespun mittens. Its copper penny eyes blink with curiosity. The pointed golden-brown claws on its paws appear almost manicured.
    I’m thinking I might be okay, when its eyes flare. This bear thinks it knows me, in a bad way. The hairs on its mitten ears prickle, alight with energy. Its eyes flash metallically. It quivers back its snout, exposing raw pink and black gums, baring a full range of healthy teeth, including canines sharpened to dagger-points. This is no friendly moose or mellow mountain lion. I don’t dare take a breath. It’s ready to pounce.
    â€œMarilynn!” Grumps calls out from behind me.
    The bear’s quivering jaw snaps shut.
    â€œYou’ll have to excuse my city gal granddaughter,” he continues. “She’s a bit of a klutz, not accustomed to looking out for other creatures.”
    There’s so much adrenaline running through me that my sentences run over one another. “You talk to bears? You call this one Marilyn? Is it because she’s blond, like Marilyn Monroe?”
    â€œNo, of course not,” Grumps steps forward. After some difficulty bending, he mashes half a dozen bananas in