Garbee's Bear

Garbee’s Bear

a novella

by

Roy Whitlow

Published by:

R.Whitlow, Bristol, UK

Smashwords Edition

ISBN: 9781476354361

Copyright: © 2012 Roy Whitlow, Bistol, UK

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, manual, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. All the names, characters, brands, media, and incidents are products of the Author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Some places referred to may exist, but any incidents related to them are fictitious.

Discover other titles by Roy Whitlow at: Smashwords,com.

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[Cover image by Richard Caton Woodville]

Chapter 1

He ran blindly: stumbling and staggering, trying to dodge the bramble and gorse bushes. His leg and both arms hurt where the blows from the clubs had caught him; his left arm was broken he was sure, somewhere above the elbow; he held it bent to his chest with the other. He saw the fallen log, but too late and he fell sprawling over it face down into soft turf beyond. He lay, gasping for breath, as sheets of pain raced through him. He spat out grass and soil. Pushing himself up on his unbroken arm; he swivelled on his knees and winced with pain. Garbee looked back.

The sky was red with flames and swirling smoke; sparks leapt and danced, flying high and swirling away. The crowd was still in full cry: shouting, screaming, calling to each other, calling for his blood. The sound came on to him in waves; he wasn’t whether sure this was due to the crowd itself or a trick of the wind – or even because his mind was reeling. Mixed in with raucous men’s shouts and semi–hysterical female voices he heard also the squealing of the bear. His Bear. Brutus, his gentle, playful, dancing bear. They were burning his bear. They were stabbing at the poor stricken creature with long pointed sticks, tied as he was to a stake. Stabbing at him through the flames, making him squeal with pain and fear. More than a score wild–eyed village men surrounded the leaping fire, chancing burns themselves; lunging and probing to score a hit on the already doomed creature. Its cries were horrible to hear: high–pitched squeals mingled with throaty roars, as it flung itself against the chains. The chains held fast.

Garbee raised his head a little higher; he was no more than eighty paces away from the awful scene. Brutus was standing on his rear legs to his full height, taller than any of the men. He was waving his forepaws about and rolling his head from side to side. A heavy chain around his neck held him fast to a thick vertical stake fashioned from a tree trunk still rooted in the ground. The bear was pushing forward with his rear legs straining and the chain grew taught, but it was unyielding. The chain and the tree trunk were too strong, too secure. Every time the bear dropped down on to all fours several pointed staves would be thrust at his face; and he would pull away and lurch in the other direction, but there too were more staves. Some of these tormenting barbs had clearly found their mark for the bear’s fur was matted in places with blood, as well as being fire–blackened and severely singed. There were six or seven staves embedded in the bear’s legs and thighs, hanging down and flapping from side to side as it struggled.

Tears streamed down Garbee’s blackened face as he listened to the anguished cries of his bear. He was crouched behind a tangled clump of bramble, afraid to raise his head again, but anxious to see what further torments his Brutus was suffering. Then there was an extra loud roar and mind–wrenching squeal from the bear; with this came a great cheering from the crowd. Then silence. Garbee slowly kneeled up and peered over the brambles. He could not see the bear now, only the backs of the crowd surrounding the fire. He strained to listen – there were no squeals or roars. He knew then that Brutus had gone down at last and had been killed. He sank down again, the sobs shaking his short squat body; his eyes were streaming, his nose running, spittle dribbled from his mouth and into his black wiry beard. Blood oozed down the left side of his face from a cut above his ear. He did not care, he gasped into the turf – at that moment he just wanted to die.

There was a fresh stirring of noise in the crowd: cries and shouts, orders were being bellowed around. He looked over the bushes again. They had piled brushwood around the tree–trunk stake and over the fallen body of the bear; it was burning fiercely with noisy crackling and spitting; sparks were dancing high into the air amid billowing smoke. The shouting intensified. Garbee suddenly realised that he could hear his name. The crowd began to break up and move out away from the fire; some were shouting and waving long staves; some had lanterns and some hastily made torches; the cries of ‘Garbee!’ could be plainly heard now. They had finished with the bear and now they were coming for him.

Garbee dropped on to all fours and shuffled backwards out of the bramble. Then, keeping as low as he could, he took off on a zig–zagging run between bushes and boulders and fallen logs. He took care to run around most obstacles rather than risk being spotted when jumping over. Running away from an angry crowd was not a new experience. His life as a travelling entertainer had always been beset with risks; village and town’s people could quickly get angry when their money was spent and their bellies were full of ale. To them folk like Garbee were at best itinerant ruffians and at worst thieving rogues. If any trouble came to a village or town fair or féte the first people blamed were the ‘travellers’ or ‘gyppos’. Some of these so–called visitors were honest enough (mostly): men and women who strung together a living making, selling and playing to different places as they travelled the country. They lived roughly: some had carts, some tents; a lot ‘dossed’ in local barns and huts. Garbee had found himself an abandoned cottage; it still had a roof and doors and it was dry. There was a stoutly built byre too, where Brutus, his bear, could stay safe and secure. He had used the old cottage now for the last few years. It was right on the edge of Charford Heath, as the common was called, and only a few minutes walk down to The Highwayman: the public house of the village of Charford–Payne.

Garbee was heading for the cottage. Some of the villagers would know he stayed there. Garbee and his dancing bear were a regular sight at Charford celebrations. He had performed in the coach yard of The Highwayman a number of times. They knew Garbee all right. He had to make it to the cottage quickly, collect his bundle and run for it. The way the crowd was baying and calling, he knew if caught his fate could well be the same as the bear’s. His thoughts raced as he dodged and weaved his way toward the cottage. Dirty murdering, thieving swine, he thought. They’ve killed him and burnt him. My bear, my lovely Brutus. He never did harm anyone – anyone. Stupid women will go on the heath at night – with cut–throats and worse everywhere. Brutus never got out. Never. Chain was too strong. Huuh! They had to get blacksmith’s gear to break it and take him up to the heath. They were just out for sport now – and my money, just as like. Swine. Swine. Swine. Now they’ve killed him – burnt him. My bear. Well, they are not getting me.

The sound of shouting was getting closer as Garbee leapt over a low stone wall into the garden of a low stone–built cottage. He barged in through the door and began stuffing clothes into a sack; he grabbed bread and cheese from the table. He looked out through the grimy window and shouted out loudly, Well, you won’t catch me, you butchers! You won’t catch Garbee. And – I’ll make you pay for killing my bear. I’ll be back – and my Brutus Bear will be back. He and I curse you forever! D’ye hear that? Yes, we’ll be back – you bloody murderers – you and your kin will remember well the day you burned Garbee’s bear. That you will!

And with that, the poor frightened, angry, grieving man they called Jonas Garbee fled from the half-ruined cottage and from the village of Charford–Payne and never came back. Well, that’s what one version of legend says. Another version suggests that later that night, when the fire on Charford Heath had