The Girl Who Speaks Bear Page 5

  The safety and warmth of my and Mamochka’s house tugs me back suddenly and I fight the urge to turn around. Because if I see the window behind which Mamochka lies sleeping, I won’t be able to do this. And if I don’t leave now, tomorrow I’ll end up far from the forest, with doctors in an unfamiliar town. The answers I seek won’t be there.

  So with trembling fingers I check my map. Then, though it makes my eyes burn, I stare straight ahead and take the trail that runs north, deeper into the forest.

  “You don’t usually walk at night.” Mousetrap leaps onto my shoulder, making me jump. “Where are you going?”

  I frown at Mousetrap in confusion. “How is it I can understand you?”

  “It’s impolite to answer a question with a question,” Mousetrap trills.

  “Sorry,” I say, almost more confused by Mousetrap correcting my manners than I am by him speaking. “It’s just strange to be talking to you.”

  “Considering how long we’ve lived together, it’s rather rude that you haven’t before.”

  “I’ve talked to you lots of times,” I protest. “It’s you who has never talked to me.”

  “Of course I have.” Mousetrap twitches his nose in irritation. “You just weren’t listening.”

  I step around an aspen with a deeply curved trunk. “That’s not true. I’ve always listened to you, and the birds, and the forest, but none of you have made sense to me before. Not like this.”

  “You obviously weren’t listening hard enough.”

  I shake my head and sigh. This is about more than listening. Something about me has changed, beyond just my legs. Something deep inside. The thought is both exciting and nerve-racking, because although understanding animals could be wonderful, and all this change might help me discover the story of my past, I don’t know what it means for my future.

  “Don’t feel bad about it.” Mousetrap squeezes himself into my collar and curls around my neck. “Hardly any humans listen. At least you’ve tried. And you’ve always been kind to me, if a little overprotective of your garden birds.” He smacks his lips together. “So if you’re walking alone in the forest at night, I shall accompany you. You may need my protection.”

  A snort escapes from my nose.

  “You find me amusing?” Mousetrap rises and rests his claws on my cheek. His black eyes flash tiny daggers of reflected moonlight.

  “I don’t mean to offend you,” I say, “but I’m the biggest, strongest person in my village, and you’re a tiny house weasel. How can you protect me?”

  “You, human girl, know nothing of the Snow Forest. My ancestors hunted here long before humans came to this region, and their knowledge is in my blood.” Mousetrap lifts his chin high and his tiny nostrils flare. “Just because my great-grandmother chose to move into your house to help with your mouse problem doesn’t make her, or her descendants, lesser weasels. Do you know how skilled you have to be to hunt prey beneath your creaking floorboards?”

  “I know you’re a fine hunter.” I nod. “I just wonder how you think you’ll protect me in the forest.”

  “I have faced enemies more terrifying than you could imagine.” Mousetrap settles back onto my shoulder and inspects his claws. They glint like metal and are needle sharp. “Once I was in your garden, stalking a rabbit, when an owl swooped down. He was three times the size of you. Talons, longer and fiercer than your boning knives, were poised to snatch me up. I leaped, twisted in the air, and landed on the owl’s back. My teeth sank into his neck and he screeched with pain. The owl flapped frantically, trying to escape my attack, but my grip didn’t weaken. Not even when the owl rose into the air. I clung on tight, and the owl carried me across the Snow Forest for three days and nights.”

  “Really?” I raise my eyebrows. There are no owls that big, and even if there were, I can’t imagine Mousetrap riding one.

  “You don’t believe me?” Mousetrap puffs out his chest.

  My face flushes. Considering I have bear legs and am talking to a weasel, it seems unfair I should doubt Mousetrap’s tale. “I’m amazed, that’s all.”

  I clamber awkwardly on all fours over a fallen cedar blocking the trail. Because my legs are so much bigger and stronger than my arms, I worry I’m going to tumble head over heels.

  “I saw the whole of the Snow Forest in those three days, laid out beneath me like a blanket.” Mousetrap waves a paw over an imaginary world beneath his nose. “This forest is so vast that when it’s morning on the east side, it’s night on the west side. It’s so far-reaching that you could walk all day every day for months and never find the end of it. Which brings me back to my question—where exactly are you going?”

  I slide a hand into my pocket and curl my fingers around my map. Feeling the paper is a comfort. The forest might be immense, and I might not know exactly where I’m going, but I have my map to guide me. “This trail runs north,” I say confidently, “and Anatoly has a cabin along it. I’ll probably stop for a rest when I reach it.”

  “And get some of his freshwater cod?” Mousetrap licks his lips. “That’s a fine mission. How far away is it?”

  “I thought you knew all about the forest.” I glance at Mousetrap, suppressing a smile.

  “I do.” Mousetrap jumps off my shoulder onto a nearby branch. “But I don’t bother myself with trifles such as the exact location of human cabins.”

  “I think we should get there in an hour or two,” I say, hoping it’s true. I’m not sure of the scale or distances shown on Anatoly’s map.

  “You think?” Mousetrap stops in his tracks and stares at me. “You mean you haven’t been there before?”

  “I have, but it was a long time ago.” I think back to the last time Mamochka took me to visit Anatoly. I was about five years old and I ran off after a bird. Mamochka couldn’t keep up and panicked, thinking I’d be lost forever. She found me, of course, but after that, she said it was safer for us to stay in our house and let Anatoly do the visiting.

  My stomach tightens at the thought of Mamochka waking to an empty house. She was already upset about my legs, and me disappearing into the forest will give her even more to worry about. I look up into the canopy, hoping something will distract me. But guilty feelings are like thirst or hunger—they gnaw away at you and are almost impossible to ignore.

  Mousetrap jumps back onto my shoulder and shakes the snow from his paws. “If the cabin is that far away, wake me when we get there.” He scampers down the front of my coat and squeezes into my fur-lined pocket.

  “What happened to protecting me?”

  “This is a safe part of the forest,” Mousetrap says in a muffled voice, and ends the conversation with a drawn-out, high-pitched yawn.

  Trees close around the strip of star-filled sky above and I slow down to let my eyes adjust to the darkness. I don’t want to light the hurricane lantern yet—I don’t want the hiss and stink of the burning oil to overpower the sounds and scents of the forest.

  Now that Mousetrap is quiet I realize how much I’ve been ignoring my surroundings. I need to pay more attention, be alert for dangers. I stop, hold my breath, and listen. Leaves rustle above me. A small bird hops along a branch, then flutters away. Frost crackles and icicles creak. Something scratches, scrambles, darts up a tree. The nighttime noises are unfamiliar. They move differently through the trees and echo louder in my ears. Fear tingles all around me.

  I stand tall and take another few steps. The new weight of my feet and the feel of my claws are reassuring. They remind me I’m strong. Even stronger than before. I can cope with whatever dangers lie in the forest.

  But then the trail dips into a tight knot of pines and every drop of starlight vanishes. I stop and squint into the darkness, fumbling in my pocket for matches. I stifle a groan as I realize I forgot to pick some up.

  Then something moves ahead of me.

  Something large.

  It knocks a branch, sending a flurry of snow to the ground. My muscles tense.

  The howl of a wolf, far in t
he distance, cuts through the air and shatters the strength I felt a moment ago.

  “Mousetrap,” I whisper, poking my pocket.

  “Are we there yet?” he asks without moving.

  I swallow back the lump that has formed in my throat. Asking for help feels like lifting a heavy log. I should be strong enough on my own. I peer between the trees again, but all I see is darkness. “I need your help,” I say finally. “To see.”

  “To see what?”

  “Something moved up ahead.”

  Mousetrap peeps out and sniffs the air. “It’s a deer.”

  I sigh with relief and take a step forward.

  Right into the path of a large gray wolf.

  My jaw drops open and I gasp at the sight of the wolf in front of me. He’s enormous, larger than I imagined a wolf could ever be. His massive head is level with my chest, and his shoulders are broader than my own.

  The wolf stares up at me. His golden eyes narrow, his ears fall back, and a growl rumbles from deep in his chest. The sound rolls over me like icy water, freezing my muscles.

  “Leave!” the wolf barks. “I’m Ivan the Gray, and this is my part of the forest.”

  My mind sparks with a fleeting excitement that I can understand him. But then Ivan’s dark lips scrunch upward, revealing long shining fangs, and he lets out an echoing snarl that seizes my heart.

  One of the first things I was taught in the village, even before I learned to read or write, was what to do when faced with a wolf. So I know I’m meant to avoid eye contact, lower my head, and back away. But I’ve lost control of my body. My eyes are locked on Ivan’s and won’t shift, and my claws sink deeper into the snow to root me in place.

  “Leave!” Ivan barks again. Muscles ripple across his back, and his fur lifts, making him look even larger.

  I draw myself to my full height and glare down at Ivan. It took enough strength and heartache to make the decision to leave Mamochka, so I’m not retreating now—not for a wolf or anything else.

  “Let me pass!” I shout as loud as I can, but Ivan tilts his head, and when moonlight glints off his teeth, my voice cracks and wavers.

  Ivan’s mouth widens into a mocking grin. “You’re weak. You don’t belong in the Snow Forest.” He prowls forward until his snout is less than an arm’s length away. His fur smells like old rain and leaf litter, and his breath has the edge of something rotten.

  Mousetrap trembles in my pocket and I’m overwhelmed by an urge to be strong for both of us. “Let me pass!” I repeat, and this time my voice holds steady.

  Ivan stops still. He lifts his snout and breathes in, and recognition flashes in his eyes. But then he seems to shake it off—and he lunges, mouth open, straight toward my neck.

  I drop the lantern and raise my arms to protect myself. Ivan bites down on my elbow, crushing it between his powerful jaws. I yell in pain and fall back. My spine smacks into the ground, punching the breath from my lungs.

  Ivan’s dark, wet nose is right above mine. Drool drips from his teeth onto my cheek. My muscles become quivering leaves. I push back with all my might, but Ivan presses down and bites harder. I struggle, trying to roll over or kick him off, and my arm knocks something. My lantern. I grab it and swing it at Ivan’s head.

  The metal base hits Ivan above his eyes. He yowls in pain and releases my arm. I scramble back against a tree and stagger to my feet, holding my throbbing arm against my chest. The skin on my elbow aches and burns, but I can’t feel any blood trickling from the bite.

  I stare at Ivan and he stares back. So many thoughts flicker in his eyes, and I wish I could read his mind as well as understand his words. Neither of us moves for what seems like an eternity. White clouds plume from our mouths and mingle in the icy air. Hot blood pulses through my veins, and my elbow pounds.

  Finally, Ivan curls back his lips and snarls. He lifts a paw hesitantly, like he can’t decide whether to attack again or dart away. His claws twitch. They’re thick, dark hooks, as long as my thumb.

  “You have a claw missing!” I exclaim. Pain and fear vanish as one of Anatoly’s stories jumps into my mind—the story of the wolf claw he gave me.

  “What of it?” Ivan growls.

  I slide a hand into my pocket, and my fingers close around the claw. “I have it!” I’m so pleased it’s still there that a smile bursts across my face.

  Ivan’s growl deepens but stops when I hold up the claw for him to see. “Where did you get that?” He leans closer and sniffs the claw, and his ears dip forward with curiosity.

  “Someone gave it to me. They told me a baby girl tore it from a wolf.” My cheeks flush with embarrassment because, standing here, in front of the mountain of muscle and fang that is Ivan, the story sounds ridiculous.

  Ivan laughs, a throaty chuckle like cracking ice. I’m so relieved his attack seems to be over, a laugh rises in my own throat too.

  “A human baby could not tear a claw from me.” Ivan sits back and licks his paw. A shaft of moonlight falls over him, highlighting patches of white hairs in his gray fur that dust his muzzle and chin. He looks old, and so much smaller now.

  I relax a little and look at the claw in my hand. “No, I don’t suppose they could.” I sigh and slide the claw back into my pocket. “It was just a story, made up to entertain me when I was young.”

  “I haven’t heard a story in a long time.” Ivan leans sideways and yawns. “Tell me.”

  Delight bubbles through me. To be fighting off a wolf one moment and then asked to tell him a story the next is as strange and magical as growing bear legs. And as I love telling stories so much, the words tingle on my tongue.

  I lean against the tree behind me and slide down until I’m crouched level with Ivan. My elbow aches and I cradle it with my hand. Mousetrap pokes his head out of my pocket, then darts through my sleeve up to my shoulder. I lower my chin into the familiar feel of his soft body, no longer trembling but warm and relaxed as he waits for a tale to be told.

  If Ivan notices Mousetrap, he doesn’t say anything. He just stares into the forest like he isn’t bothered whether I tell the tale or not. But his ears are turned to me. It reminds me of how Mamochka listens to Anatoly’s stories while pretending she isn’t.

  I wonder, If Mamochka was here, would she pretend I wasn’t talking to a wolf? I smile at the thought, then open my mouth and let the words of the story tumble out.

  Once upon a time, a wolf pack hunted beneath a high pearl moon. They stalked through the shadows, paws silent on the snow, and when the thrill of the hunt became too much to contain, they threw howls into the sky that splintered the night air.

  The pack leader, a gray wolf with golden eyes, stopped still, one paw hovering above the snow. His ears turned to the faraway crunch of a tiny footstep and he lifted his snout high. Then he grinned a fangsome grin, because he smelled prey, plump and weak. Anticipation fluttered through the wolf. He took off after the prey, and in a whispering whirlwind his pack followed.

  The wolves sped through the forest, swerving around trees and leaping over shrubs. But as they approached a sparkling glade, they slowed to a gentle sigh. They glimpsed a human child, not four seasons old, standing naked in the snow on pink, fleshy legs. The child giggled at icicles clinking in the boughs and burbled to the high, swaying branches. Leaves chattered back in the language of the forest.

  But then the wolf stepped into the glade and all was silent. From behind the trees crept the rest of the pack, black and white and silver in the night. They watched their leader closely, shivering with excitement, waiting for the signal to attack.

  The gray wolf licked his fangs and smiled. “Child,” he growled, “you should not be here alone. My pack and I are hungry, and it’s our duty to eat the weak so only the strong creatures of the forest survive.”

  The child turned to the wolf and spoke in the language of the forest. “I am strong, so I will live.”

  Laughter rumbled from the gray wolf. “Fight if you wish. If you’re strong enough, you may earn
your place in the Snow Forest.” And he prowled forward, fangs bared.

  But the child stared into the gray wolf’s eyes with such courage and determination that the wolf stopped, dipped his head, and took a step back.

  “Our leader retreats,” whispered the wolves of the pack. “He fears the child.”

  “I have no fear,” snapped the gray wolf. His fur bristled and he glowered at the child. “You’re not stronger than me and my pack.”

  The child looked at the wolves to her right and to her left, and she lifted her chin high, for she felt the strength of the forest inside her.

  “Attack!” snarled the wolves to their leader. “You must lead the attack.”

  The gray wolf hesitated again, confused by the strength radiating from such small prey. But the child was alone, and he was the leader of a pack. He darted toward the little girl, his lips drawn back, and the other wolves followed in his wake.

  The child stood tall, raised her arms, and, in the moment before the gray wolf’s paws landed on her chest, closed her fingers around one of his claws and pulled. The claw ripped free, and the wolf yelped as he fell to the ground in shock. The child giggled, and the wolf’s golden eyes burned with anger and shame.

  The wolf pack scattered in dismay that their leader had been overpowered by such tiny prey, and the gray wolf limped into the forest alone. That night, while licking his tender, injured paw in the shadows beneath the trees, the gray wolf vowed he wouldn’t return to his pack until he had proven himself strong enough to be leader once more.

  I finish the story quickly, leaving out the last bit. In Anatoly’s version, the child wanders back to the cave where she lives with the Bear Tsarina, snuggles into her thick, warm fur, and falls asleep. That part feels too personal to share with Ivan.