A creature of habit

The turbulent river showed no signs of relenting. It violently made its way downstream, smashing itself with vengeful intent against the banks that confined it and the rocks that had the misfortune of being in its way. The crowd that had gathered under the shade of the apple tree by the riverbank had their eyes fixed at a spot. Some of them pointed animatedly towards something particular along the course of the water-body; others spoke in ominous hushes that betrayed signs of anxiety.

A man, curiously drawn towards the large gathering, came by to inspect the cause. He was known to be of noble descent, bred with strong, unbending morals and of athletic finesse. He surveyed the landscape ahead and he could make nothing of it.. until he saw it too!

The gruesome spectacle was unmistakable. Caught in the clutches of the current was a definitive, writhing mass of life that appeared to be bleeding. Its vain struggle against the downstream current was futile.

“Is it a man?” remarked a bystander. “What difference does it make? He is a goner he is!” muttered another. “How about we cast a line of sorts?” suggested a third. “Nay, it’d drag the whole lot of us along!” hushed a fourth.

The man had heard enough. After having shot the most despicable and condescending of stares at the throng, he began to strip to his waist-cloth; all of it in an attempt to fight the tide and save the person heading to his certain death. Exclamations of alarm went up among the people – “Lad, you don’t have to do this!” “You cannot save him. The water Gods will not relent.” “Certainly, you value your life more than this absurdity!?” The man silenced them all with a gesture and spoke in an earthy baritone – “His death will not be by my inaction”. Having said thus, he took a mighty, precise plunge into the cold river.

The audience gradually grew in number as word got around the hamlet about a certain aristocrat who was off his chump. The river banks flooded with people, both young and old alike, to watch a daring act of bravery, the likes of which they had never witnessed in a long time. They were quite fearful yet fascinated by the strokes his sinewy body made – not a breath wasted, he covered almost three quarters of the distance towards the being held against its own will in a vile flow.

The man entered red waters. The bleeding was rather profound as the clear streams were now murky. Upon gaining proximity, he realized two things with a rather compelling sense of horror – firstly, the prey was much larger than its rescuer. Secondly, the creature was a wounded bear! 

The folly of his bravado dawned late on him.The shocked creature clung onto the man in a state of panic and desperation, sinking its claws into his back and arms in the hopes of getting a foothold to secure lands... the man screamed in agony!

The bear was agitated beyond reason by now. In a flash, it chewed off the man’s face and climbed onto his limp corpse momentarily as his form spouted more blood. Within moments, the bear saw the end of the stream at a waterfall. In its final moments, it grabbed the dead body in a tight hug and soon disappeared with a long and distant growl. A distinct thud signaled the ending of the growl.

The multitude were too stunned to react. For a few minutes, nobody spoke until one of them broke the uneasy silence – "He was a good lad he was. Valour was his vice."

“Ah well, he didn’t know any better than what could get him killed. May he find peace.” Having muttered thus, the crowd disappeared into a sunset haze of melancholy.    

(This story was narrated to me by my Grandmother when I was rather little. Never quite understood it back then but as with all good things in life, it made better sense with time. She remarked that all vices of the world were synonymous with the bear and that fools have always found it hard to resist the challenge it presented to them. 

Damn!)