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The Wisdom of Ambrose

By Susan Prudhomme

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The Wisdom of Ambrose

Ambrose is a bear – well, no, he is The Bear, of The Redwoods. But I am getting ahead of myself already. Let us just say that Ambrose is a bear, so we are all clear on that, because after all, how many novels are about bears, and how many people really know a bear, much less The Bear?
When I first met Ambrose, he was – no, I am getting ahead of myself again. I should tell you, first, who I was. But then, that is what started the whole thing, wasn’t it? Not knowing who I was.
What a strange world we live in, we creatures who do not know who we are. There was an old TV show, Lost in Space. Most of us are lost in the world. Our lives are like a prison where nothing makes much sense, and we are always yearning for what is Outside, or Beyond, even though we have no idea what that is.
So that is where I was on the day I met Ambrose, lost in the world, lost in life. My life did have a sort of internal consistency, and I could relate that with others around me to achieve some sense of stability. As long as I did not look beyond that, I could manage alright; but the whole of it did not relate to anything bigger. And I wanted something big, something grand, something ultimate.
My husband Tom just turned the TV up louder when I tried to tell him about this. He professed utter contentment with his own life of work, family, and sports on television. I suppose my restlessness and dissatisfaction spilled over and contaminated his “internal consistency,” threatened to make him ask the same kinds of questions, and he did not want to. Well, why should he? It was my problem.
So (I almost said, “On that fateful day”), I sought refuge among the redwoods. They are old friends. How fortunate I am to live in Northern California, where they spread their beneficence along many city streets and even in people’s little back yards, and where you can still find ancient groves of them to run to.
I ran.
We live quite near the Russian River, and the plentiful redwoods growing along its course are only a teaser, forming a sort of entrance hall to the great grove near Guerneville. Our own back yard redwoods were not enough for me that day. I needed the Grove.
Parking the car in the lot, I showed my annual pass to the ranger at the gate and began the walk up the trail along with all the tourists. The peace exuding from the trees began to reach me, and I breathed deeply, wanting to stop, close my eyes, and spread my arms wide in greeting. But just then I was bumped from behind, and, startled, turned to see a stroller with a baby waving its fists at me, its father speaking rapid Japanese in apparent apology. By the time I had finished trying to reassure him and send him and his family on their way, my attention had been overtaken by the sight and sound of many feet shuffling along up the trail, and I found I had become one of them, just one of a crowd.
There were so many people there that day! It was like a swarm. All around me they pointed, gaped, and commented in a variety of languages – men explaining to their admiring women how old the trees were, how tall, how you could tell their age by the rings in a cross-section – it really was not about the trees at all, but about them, the men, and how knowledgeable and important they were. And the women, calling to their children, looking for vending machines to buy them snacks, complaining about the lack of diaper-changing facilities. They weren’t getting it. Why had they even bothered to come?
I moved along under the towering columns of red bark, feeling the softness of the forest floor under my feet, looking up, above heads, into the shafts of sunlight piercing through the miles, it seemed, of branches, creating shifting patterns of light and shadow that made a playground for tiny insects oblivious of the hugeness around them – or were they? They were part of the pattern, they knew their place.
I followed a path that veered off to the right and up a rise. There were fewer people here, but behind me I could hear the driving beat from someone’s boom box, the shrieks of girls and the laughter of young men. Around a few more curves, the sound would fade. Would I find the peace I was longing for?
Yes, there it was. I began to hear, reverberating gently deep in my bones, the trees’ silent speech. Like an invisible mist it seeped into my flesh and cooled my anxious mind. At last I could stop and just absorb the wisdom of long ages spent standing in this one place, immovable, enduring, still.
Sequoia sempervirens. Sempervirens – ever living. A creature like me, but one with no life cycle. It will never die of its own old age, and is nearly impervious to threats from outside – disease, even fire. Its only real natural enemy is the wind, and it withstands the gusts that might uproot it by intertwining its roots with its neighbors’, making small family circles. But though its roots reach out to others, the tree itself points ever upward, growing always toward the heavens.
As I stood there, ruminating on these things, it seemed to me that the trees offered all the answers that I was longing for, if only I could take them in. I thought if I could stand there, like them, through night and day, in rain and wind and fire, I too could hear their wisdom, and learn to endure. And maybe in that long endurance I would find my meaning.
Just off the path I saw a small family circle of trees standing, and it seemed to me that it beckoned me. No one was around to see me leave the path and make my way into their midst. They seemed to gather me into their bosom, one of their family. Screened by bracken, I was all but invisible to the people who continued to drift up along the path, their voices floating to me along with the music that still played somewhere farther back, the cries of children, a dog barking somewhere.
I closed my eyes. The tangy scent of redwood, the musty odor of leaves rotting in a streamlet nearby, the telltale hint of a skunk that had passed this way not too long ago – they all came to me, little by little. Then another scent – or blend of scents – powerful, something like a dog that had been swimming in a dirty pond, overlaid by berry vines and crushed grass. I opened my eyes, and there he was.
A bear. A very large bear. He stood there on all fours, looking at me with small, suspicious eyes. Seconds passed. What was one supposed to do when confronted by a bear? Wave your arms and make a lot of noise, they say. That will scare it off. But I was frozen to the spot, and if I had tried to yell, I knew the only sound would be a tiny strangled squeak. Besides, there was something about this bear that didn’t allow for foolish displays of bravado. He had gravitas.
Without moving my head, I shifted my eyes to look around. Was anyone nearby who could help? Run for the rangers? Something? And then the really strange thing hit me. Nobody was there. All the people sounds had disappeared. Except for the little insects still flitting, a bird calling in the distance, and the heavy breath of the creature before me, the forest’s silence was complete, and in my sinking heart I knew it was silent and empty like that for miles upon miles. Maybe forever. Not only that, there had been some kind of shift – was it the light? Things looked somehow newer, fresher.
We stood like that for minutes, staring at each other. The bear’s nose was lifted and twitching, inspecting me by scent. Then, clearly and distinctly, it said, “Who are you and what are you doing here?”
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Well, that was the question, wasn’t it? Who was I? What was I doing here?
“You talk?” I said weakly, feeling at once foolish and frightened, though my fright at the presence of a bear was giving way to fright at finding he spoke and asked simple questions that in this place were unnerving.
“Of course, I talk,” he muttered gruffly. “What nonsense is this? Are you sane?”
There it was again. A simple, straightforward question that I found I could not answer with any confidence. I resorted to convention.
“My name is Susan,” I said weakly, then finished in a rush, “and I am here because I love the redwoods.”
“Su-shan. I do not know this name. How did you get this name?”
“My parents gave it to me, like everyone else,” I responded now with some asperity. “How else does one get a name?”
He looked at me oddly. “I am just trying to find out who you are.”
“So am I,” I wanted to say, but sensed this would not allay whatever his apparent suspicions were. I let it pass, wondering how to proceed.
“So, Su-shan, you say you love the trees. Is this what the name means, then, Lover-of-trees?”
“I suppose when it applies to me, it does.”
The bear gave me a long, steady look. “Tell me about this love for the trees.”
My love for the trees. Really, this was becoming the oddest conversation. “Well, when I am among them, I feel the world is right, after all.”
He looked again searchingly into my face, and then seemed to relax. “You are very strange, Su-shan, but I think you may be here if you like.”
It seemed that perhaps I was not to be eaten. I found that my knees were starting to buckle. “May I sit down, er, Sir?” I asked.
“Why, yes. What a good idea. Sorry to have forgotten my manners. Please do sit.” And as I slid gratefully down to lean against a smallish trunk, he plopped his hindquarters comfortably onto the soft floor of decomposed bark. “I am Ambrose,” he added.
Ambrose. Of course. He could not be anyone else, I realized. How was that?
We sat like that together for quite some time. Gradually, the space between us and around us became companionable. I could pay attention to the colors and sounds, the feel of the place where we were. It was surely the grove I had always known, but it was no longer the state park that contained the grove. Had I slipped back in time? How silly. That could not be. Besides, I thought with an attempt at rationality, bears of the past did not talk, any more than bears of the present.
Ambrose broke into my thoughts. “You seem troubled, Su-shan.” His voice came in low grunts, but was not unfriendly.
“I do not know where I am, Ambrose. It is all familiar, but this is not my world. In my world, bears do not talk.”
Ambrose started. “Not talk? How very odd. Are you sure?”
“No, no animals use speech.”
He gazed at me in consternation. “Terrible,” he muttered scowling. I began to be afraid again. “Tell me more about this world of yours,” he demanded.
I began to tell him about people and cities, roads, cars, traffic; businesses, factories, schools. His eyebrows rose steadily, and he began to shake his head as if to clear away gnats buzzing around it.
“This world of yours sounds not good,” he said. “Too much and yet not enough. How do you live in it?”
“Well, my life is made up mostly of family, and friends, and work to do. I have a mate, and two children who are grown up now.”
He nodded, apparently finding this satisfactory. “Yes, these are good things. Perhaps, then, you are not so very bent.”
He heaved himself up on all fours. “I just remembered,” he said, “a new bramble I found, full of blackberries.” He began padding away, and I watched with surprise at being left so suddenly. He turned and looked over his shoulder. “Aren’t you hungry?” he asked.
I was, I realized. Quite hungry. I got up and trailed after him.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The bear went off, me following, almost retracing my steps from the park trail to where we had met. The only thing was, there was no trail there any more. The trees rose around us in their mysterious silence, and wild flowers grew among the ferns at their bases. I did not know where we were going. More importantly, I mused as we walked along, I did not know how to get back home, to my own world.
How had I come here? I remembered feeling frustrated by all the noise and indifference of others; I remembered finding a place of relative peace, and leaving the trail to get closer to a family group of redwoods. Then, I had just closed my eyes. That was it.
Maybe I had fallen asleep. Maybe this was a dream. I considered carefully, as my feet followed in Ambrose’s tracks and I absentmindedly noticed the broken stalks on undergrowth after his passing. That wouldn’t happen in a dream. Nor would a dream bear give off quite the redolence of this one, I was sure. It was all much too real, and I was much too conscious of its strangeness.
Up ahead, Ambrose’s hindquarters rolled from side to side as he plodded along. A squirrel was chattering at him, and I thought perhaps an argument was about to happen. He stopped and sat, and the squirrel came right down from its tree trunk onto the earth in front of him. A few of their words floated back to me: “. . . won’t like it . . . . a guest . . remember hospitality . . . well, if you’re sure . . . .”
Ambrose looked up and saw me hesitating. “Come along,” he growled, “Chita here would like to meet you. Chita, this is Su-shan.”
Chita looked me over with her bright eyes and flicking tail, and climbed onto a large rock to look me over again. “You are a stranger here?” she asked.
“Yes. Mr. – ah – Ambrose has kindly invited me to see his berry bramble.”
“His bramble? Goodness, what an odd thing to say!” She looked me over again as embarrassed color mounted in my face.
“I’m sorry,” I stammered, “I am a stranger here, as you said, and I do not yet know your ways.”
She sniffed, obviously unsure about the wisdom of taking me further in, but Ambrose gave an impatient snort and she ran off.
“Don’t worry about Chita,” he said kindly. “She is young and learning. You are welcome here. I, Ambrose, have said so.” He put a huge paw on my shoulder and I tried to smile bravely at him, but it was difficult with those long, dirty, yellow and very sharp claws resting so near my face. “Just a little farther now,” he said, and we set off again.
Sure enough, a little way on we came to a large berry bramble that was covered with juicy-looking fruit. It also was nearly covered with a flock of blackbirds who were dining sumptuously. Far from lumbering in and swatting them all away, Ambrose hauled himself to a stop a short distance off and waited. He was fidgeting and impatient, but he waited. What kind of bear was this?
“Come, children,” I heard one of the birds call out. “Save some for the rest of the creatures. Ambrose is waiting.”
They soon flew away, and within minutes our tongues were purple with the juice, and more juice was running down my arms which were thoroughly scratched by the thorns. It was a feast, as Ambrose waded in bear-style and I followed suit.
“You’re lucky, Ambrose,” I chuckled. “All that heavy fur keeps the thorns away.”
“Now for a nap in the sun,” he said, and set off. This time, I didn’t wait for an invitation. In just a few minutes, we broke through the forest shade into a small clearing carpeted with green grass. Ambrose went directly to what was apparently his favorite spot, and gestured to me to join him.
“Those thorns do tear at my nose, and the tender places between my toes,” he whimpered. Sure enough, I could see some scratches. “But,” he continued, “they are not nearly as bad as bees.” And he began to talk in rapturous tones about honey and how he loved it. When he found a hive, he just had to go for the honey, and then the bees would come and sting him all over, even getting down under his fur.
“In my world, we buy honey at the store, and never have to see a bee,” I told him, yawning.
“Truly?” he asked, becoming quite excited. “Honey without bees?”
“Mm-hm. I have a big jar of it in my cupboard at home. No bees anywhere around.”
He fell into daydreaming about what he would do with bee-less honey. The concept enthralled him, and he began to drowse, one paw draped over me in a companionable way. Soon, I drowsed, too, marveling sleepily at lying here in a meadow, snuggled close to a real, live bear.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

We were awakened by the little squirrel, Chita. “Ambrose,” she was calling, as she tapped his snout, “it is time for our guest to go. Wake up!”
He stirred lazily. “Go?” he mumbled. “No, no, I want to keep her. She is mine.”
“Ambrose!” Chita could become quite severe, I noticed. I sat up and saw that the afternoon light was sliding into evening. What had I been thinking, falling asleep like that? I needed to get back home. Tom would be worried.
“Chita? How?”
“The Lady says you must go now. But she said to give you this.” She handed me a long hollowed-out piece of wood with holes at intervals. I could think only of my need to go home, and took it without paying much attention.
Ambrose looked in my eyes sadly. “I do not want you to go, Su-shan,” he said. “I do not think we are finished, yet.” He reached his nose forward and touched the tip of mine with it. Then he seemed to fly slowly backward, and as I looked, the meadow and Chita went with him, becoming less and less distinct until I could see them no more. His weepy bear voice came floating to me out of the distance . . . . something about the flute, remembering the flute. Then he was gone.
I looked down and saw that the object Chita had given me was indeed a rustic kind of flute. As I examined it, wondering, my solitude was shattered by the sudden onslaught of human voices and human smells, the electric noise of the boom box pouring out rock music.
I was standing in the middle of the park trail, with people pushing past me and giving me the strangest looks. I realized I had been calling, “Good-bye, Ambrose, good-bye.”

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