The early-risen mist of the forest was both avaricious and fine, a gossamer that

also grounded itself in spiderish lace around Gunter Gunderssen's boots. The
boots were a hearty pair of tall wrap mukluks previously owned by Uncle
Henryk Gunderssen. He missed his old frændi quite a bit. The footwear was
something from an older era, stained charcoal gray, much like the ash that
tumbled downward from the pipe he rapped against his knuckles. The pipe was
nothing special. Just a tobacco utility he'd purchased from Lars at the
bondemarked.

From behind Gunter came a fitful rustling. Then some vaporous grunting. The
man put a match to his freshly packed pipe, igniting a rich tobacco blend
illegally smuggled back from a midnight run through Sweden. It curled and
flamed predictably and comfortably. He inhaled pleasantly and contentedly.

The rustling became almost churlish, and powder-dusted flumping footsteps

headed toward Gunter. Gunter smiled. Indeed, today he would hold palaver.

"God dag og lykkelige formuer. Det er godt å se deg så sterk med tobakk og ale." The
voice was heavygruff, still mostly asleep."

"God dag, Bjørnhard. How goes your slumber?"

There was a great skraggling shake of snow and ice from fur before the seven-
foot tall bear sat down next to Gunter on the log.

"You prefer the common tongue then, this dawn?" the bear asked, mildly
surprised.

Dawn here meant it was around 1 PM. The vast landscape facing Gunter and
the great brown shadow heaped next to him began to glisten in the early sun, a
shining sheen that would not last much longer. His morning companion would
soon be burrowed complete. Gunter was not looking forward to the long winter
without their weekly commiserations.

"Yes, Bjørnhard. There is a longing in my heart today to which the ice does not
turn away its face, nor reply. I must be restless." Gunter shook his head. But
times are as they are, just as we are as we are."

"While you espouse your empty wilings, may I enjoy a smoke with you?"

This was their near-typical greeting, less one part. Bjørnhard was habitual with
most everything, and Gunter relished regularity. Life had deviated from
reliable quite much, of late, in the village. This was where Gunter came to
brush the vertiginous and inexplicable off from his own hackles. The bear came
for the jam and the ale, though he pretended it was about the fish and the
tobacco.
"A smoke? Before your warm milk? It cools quickly. You should know."

"Why yes. Sometimes to rearrange ourselves, we must rearrange our

inclinations. And so sometimes I prefer cold milk." The bear chuffed, as if this
were not the first time this had happened. It was a first a first, at least in
Gunter's company.

"Of course, min venn." He handed the bear his other pipe, a browncherry-
coloured meerschaum, which he himself, meaning Gunter, had bored and
carved in the days of his youth. It was in the comely shape of a lady's leg bent
at the knee, the bowl ending in the fluff of an expensive dark-months garter.

The consistency of the smoked lacquer that lined the edges of the inner bowl
was that of beeswax and molasses - long-lived and long-loved. Gunter had
wondered, in his more fanciful musings, if he ever might have a son he'd pass it
on to. Bjørnhard, for many reasons, could hardly ever be his son. For one, he
was far older than Gunter. The ritualized presentation of the treasure was a
measure of his respect for a bear's sense of quality.

"And the tobacco?"

"Of course, min venn. The same as ever," Gunter replied.

"Have you kept with your exercises?" Gunter paused, thinking. He carefully put
a match to the pipe for Bjørnhard. Bears' hands, while dexterous, were not
especially inclined toward lighting a tiny stick of wood. They were more meant
for shearing through it. Bjørnhard always broke the match when he tried it
himself. After a few times, the bear had tucked away his pride and no longer
bothered to try. It was a rather atypical gesture of unsolicited affection they'd
both accepted without words.

"Of course, min venn."

"Then you are ready for the winter's dark days, and then the festival test of
your strength. I sense it will be a long chill this season."

Gunter looked at the bear. Surely it was just frozen, thawed, and refrozen eye
fluids...but what looked to be a teardrop captured in time shone like golden
amber at the corner of the bear's left eye.

"I am not so sure, this season, Bjørn..." Gunter trailed off, as did the smoke from
his pipe. His insides rumbled. "Would you like some breakfast?"

"I trust you have brought the salmon? The one with the fine salt and oil, as I
prefer? And the ale?"
The bear's thoughts often jumped to the ale, though the great shaggy beast
would have protested if Gunter did not pour coffee first. The sacred language
of coffee, like many things, was unspoken.

"Of course, min venn," Gunter said, rolling his eyes a little. Gunter shook his
head, bemused. Sad too. An obscure Lingonberry jam that only Gunter knew
how to procure out of the whole village, unprocessed butter, rye toast, and
muesli turned to porridge, kept hot in his thermos, was their perpetual meal.

"Of course..." Bjørn mused. He should be more hungry, but today he was not.
"When do you think the world laid down its cards and folded, Gunter?"
Lukewarm coffee already finished, they clinked their freshly brimming flagons
together.

"When it realized we are all assholes, and it simply chose to embrace its
nature?"

"Embrace. Nature. Words that encompass actions, as well as frames of mind.

Perhaps if our language was better, we could better discover the other side of
the coin."

"Bears have no use for coin, one side or the other. And were that true, about
language, you would have eaten me by now instead of my cereal. You would
have broken my favorite pipe, rather than smoked from it."

"Perhaps." The bear scratched his chin.

"I could not decide on solboller or bløtkake, so I brought neither." Gunter looked
anxiously at the bear, although there was no fear in his heart.

"I agree with you, Gunter. Neither seems apropos this morning. But do not
neglect leaving one or the other out for the nisse when the time is right. Your
fortunes may hinge upon it. All of us, we hover, as above the edge of the knife."

Honing blades being part of his profession, Gunter understood this tautology
well. "When the time is right."

"I know of your delightful woman, min venn."

Gunter looked at the ground and muttered, "And so you know..."

The bear turned to look at him: "Delight or no, she is not for you."

Not terribly far from them, two children came bursting from between the
trees, dragging toboggans. Gunter was startled, so deep was he burrowed into
his head. Bjørn made no fuss. He had heard them from some distance away.
The two slowed and stared at their fellow villager, well-known as the only
smithy for many kilometers around; their mouths hung agape at the sight of
the bear sitting so civilized, like a man, just next to him. Bjørn and Gunter
remained silent for a moment. Then the bear let out a fart so mutinously huge
that it echoed through the valley.

The boy screamed. The girl yelled OTSO!!!

Bjørnhard called back, which naturally sounded like a roar to them (though not
to Gunter), "Don't call me that! I am not Otso! That is my idiot cousin's name!"

They both dropped their sleds and started sprinting back from whence they
came.

Bjørn grumbled a moment then said, "That was unkind of me. Otso may be soft
in the head, but I will be going to Helevete in a håndkurv if I do not admit he can
roll a snowball and make it look to so silly locals as if he walks upon it. Freaks
them out! Circus bear in the forest! And that is most funny to me. It is only
truly dumb or mean bears that bother with humans."

"So which are you?" Gunter asked.

"Well, the dumbest, is Otso..." Bjørnhard replied, ever laconic.

Gunter and Bjørn took to the morning's silence a moment more. Then both
burst into huge belly-laughs. Their morning repast complete, they clinked
flagons once more. Wordless.

Bjørn patted his friend on the back, and trundled away to return to his long
torpor.

Gunter wrapped the remainders in his reindeer-leather satchel, and began

toward home. Somewhere between glancing once more at the bear's
diminishing, flatulent backside, and the first flickering of the day's fire in his
hearth, Gunter decided. He decided he would skip the tourney this year. Then
he realized that Bjørnhard had taken his precious pipe. He decided he was okay
with that.

Gunter called his travel agent and booked a flight for the next day to Costa
Rica.