Maybe the legendary stories of Ernie are true, he thought. This is one crazy-ass bear. He spit the taste of ash out of his mouth and laughed. I’ve got one to add to the mix, too, Dad. But I think this one might be a bit better than anything you and Ron came up with. Yes indeed.

Matt held his breath, and heard Ernie ambling through the bog, snapping branches out past the lone balsam fir. The great bear was heading west.

There was nothing Matt could ever do to explain what he saw. A black bear had just herded him off a campfire and then proceeded to destroy it. When does that ever happen? Has it ever happened? Why?he thought.

With the face gone, it was easier for him to imagine it was all a coincidence. It was easier to conclude that Ernie just didn’t like campfires.

A bear that puts out campfires? Come on, Matthew, the little anxiety voice said.

Shut up, Matt said.

As the legendary bear drifted west, night birds sprang from the trees Ernie passed under. Some of them flew over the orchard, peering down at Matt as he collected the flaming wood, now scattered in an eighty-foot circumference around the fire pit like crash-landed fireflies.

Colors

COLORS

When he got too cold, and the moment had been allowed to settle in, Matt followed the path to the shack, shoulders slumped and heels dragging.

So that was Ernie, huh Dad? he thought. Good ol’ Ernie. He never believed any of those stories, but now he was sorry for ever doubting his father.

The wind shifted from the Hurons and his skin prickled. The face was nothing, he thought. A flashback. Still, why did Ernie look like he was staring right at it? Matt puffed his chest out and took a deep breath. The only monsters he knew were tiny, cancerous cells, and other people.

His headlamp cast a violet light upon the wooden door, making it look artificial. He grabbed the iron handle and the door creaked open, revealing a dark womb. Something scurried off into the corner, probably a mouse. He reached onto the shelf and took the box of strike tip matches. The matchsticks rattled inside the delicate cardboard box as he took the lantern, swinging it a bit while placing his ear to the base. On the last swing he placed the lantern on the cherrywood table. Matt twirled two butterfly nuts on top of the lantern and removed the glass. He pinched a match, closed the inner box and tilted it to the side. The match head dragged along the coarse strip and came to life, effusing a warm glow that contrasted with the artificial light of his headlamp. He positioned the flame under each fragile, white-netted sack. Then Matt replaced the protective glass and tweaked the fuel nozzle. The lantern hissed and dazzled the shack, chasing off every patch of darkness.