Джефф Вандермеер - The Thackery T. Lambshead Cabinet of Curiosities

And even when they want it for the money, it’s the story that keeps them bidding as the numbers spiral higher and higher, past the reasonable limit they set, upward, to sweaty and exultant triumph. A young man looking to invest in an artist whose name he mispronounces—but knows is worth a lot—might actually be sold on his own story. Born in a grubby apartment to parents who never finished college, but look at him now—look at all that art on his walls—what a man of taste he must be! Or maybe he’s sold on the story of the artist himself, who died young and in debt—a tragedy that our investor finds romantic from his penthouse apartment with park views. Or perhaps it is the story of the piece itself that evokes a single memory—the tilt of the neck on a beautiful girl our investor never got the courage to approach but still burns for in his fitful dreams.

Well, take a look at this next piece and see if its story appeals to you.

Take a good, long look.

It might appear to be a contemporary found-object sculpture, with its speaker-heart and diamond eyes. You might guess it came from a gallery in SoHo, but this piece actually dates from the turn of the century.

The artist, Charlotte Wells, was born in a logging camp in the northeastern part of Maine. Her father was a cook. He and his wife lived in a ramshackle cabin with their three children—John, Toby, and baby Charlotte.

In the winter, food was scarce, and that February had been worse than most. When a black bear was spotted, the loggers tracked it back to its lair and shot it for meat and the warmth of its pelt. As they made ready to drag the dead bear’s body back to camp for butchering, they realized it wasn’t alone in the cave. A bear cub cried weakly for its mother.

Not sure what to do with it, the men brought the cub back to camp and dumped it in the snow outside the cook’s cabin. The bloody flesh of its mother was brought inside, along with her pelt. Young Toby and John found it and begged their mother to let them keep the little bear.

Eric Orchard’s “Portrait of a Bear Unbound (with speaker)”

“There’s no food to spare,” her husband warned.

“Nonetheless,” said Mrs. Wells and nursed the bear cub along with Charlotte.

Mrs. Wells would rest each of them on opposite hips, as though they were twins. It got to be that the bear seemed like just another baby, even sleeping beside Charlotte in her crib, thick fur tickling her nose and teaching her his bestial scent.

They had to call him something, so Mrs. Wells named the bear Liam, after a cousin of whom she’d always been fond.

Liam followed Charlotte around, never wanting to be parted from her side. When she began to crawl, he tottered around on all fours. When she began to walk, he stood up, too, much to the consternation of Mr. and Mrs. Wells.

Charlotte’s first word was “Mama.”

Liam’s first word was “Lottie.”

Mr. and Mrs. Wells were surprised, but pleased. Liam turned out to be a quick learner. He had trouble holding an ink pen, and although his penmanship was to be despaired of, he was very good with sums.

And when Charlotte was given a bear-fur cape, made from the pelt of Liam’s bear mother and lined in velvet as bright red as droplets of blood in snow, he did not mourn. He barely seemed to recall another life. And if sometimes he grew silent or withdrawn, Charlotte quickly jollied him out of his sulks with some new game.

If Liam and Charlotte were inseparable as children, they were even closer in adolescence, always climbing trees and playing games and pulling at one another’s hair. But Liam never seemed to stop growing. Mrs. Wells had to use curtains and bedsheets sewn together for his shirts and trousers. Shoes were hopeless. And no matter how much food he ate, Liam’s stomach was always growling for want of enough. He gulped down huge portions of soup, drank the whole kettle’s worth of tea, ate an entire loaf of bread at a time, and, on at least one holiday, devoured an entire haunch of salt-cured venison.

By the time he was fifteen, he towered over Mr. Wells and could carry a felled tree on his back. His strength was so great he could no longer control it. One afternoon, while playing a game of tag, he reached for Charlotte, and instead of touching her shoulder lightly with the pad of his paw, he slashed her cheek with his nails.

She screamed, blood soaking her dress, and soon the whole camp was gathered around Liam, looking at him through narrowed eyes. A few had brought rifles.

“He didn’t mean to,” Charlotte shouted, burying her face against his fur.

The crowd dispersed slowly as she wept, but not before Liam saw in each of their faces that they were afraid, that they had been afraid for a long time. He would never be one of them. Mrs. Wells saw it, too.

“Liam,” Mrs. Wells said, later that night. “You can’t stay here anymore. It’s not safe.”

“But Mother,” said the bear. “Where will I go?”

“Perhaps it is time for you to be among your own people,” said Mrs. Wells.

He looked around the far-too-small kitchen, where even if he hunched over, the tips of his ears scraped the ceiling. He touched the stool that creaked underneath him and glanced across the table at the tiny, bird-boned woman with the silvering hair. “I do not know their ways,” said Liam.

Mrs. Wells stroked his cheek like she had when he was small. “Then go to the big city down east. All manner of folk live there. All manner of different customs. Maybe there’ll be a place for you, too.”

Liam nodded, knowing that she was right. “I will leave in the morning,” he said.

Mrs. Wells packed up cheese, bread, apples, preserves, and sausages for his journey. Mr. Wells gave Liam five shiny dollar coins to get him started. John gave him a fishing pole so he’d be able to catch some lunch any time he wanted. Toby gave him a Bible and a flask of the strong liquor they distilled from potato peels. It wasn’t a small flask, but in Liam’s paw, it might as well have been a thimble.

“Where’s Charlotte?” Liam asked. “Won’t she come and kiss me good-bye?”

“She’s taking this very hard,” Mr. Wells said. “Feels responsible.”

“Is she very hurt?” asked Liam, thinking of the marks on her face. Wondering if they would scar. Wondering how it would be for her if they did, for she was thought of as a great beauty and much admired. Would that change?

“She’ll get better,” said John. “Lottie knows you didn’t mean to hurt her.”

“And we all know she’s not vain,” said Toby, which made Liam feel even worse. Toby’s mouth lifted on one side. “I wager you’ll always be her favorite.”

“Tell her,” Liam said in his deep, growling voice. “Tell her that I will write.”

“Of course,” said Mrs. Wells, neither of them mentioning that mail took ages to find its way up to their town.

He embraced them, one by one. He tried to be as gentle as he could, tried not to crush them against him, tried not to press his nose against their necks as he drew the scent of them into his lungs one final time.

Then, sack of food tied to the fishing pole, fishing pole slung over his shoulder, Liam started the long journey south.

He walked for half the day, stopping to eat everything Mrs. Wells had packed for him. His stomach hurt less, but self-pity still gnawed at his gut.

That night, he slept under the stars. A cool breeze tickled his fur, his ears twitched, and he could almost imagine that he had always lived this way. He was tempted to throw away his rod and flask, to strip off his clothes, and never to walk upright again.