The Girl Who Speaks Bear Read online

  Mousetrap wriggles deeper into my collar, and tiny snores drift up to my ears.

  Ivan releases something between a snort and a sneeze. “Your story is impossible. A human child is not capable of ripping out a wolf ’s claw.”

  “The story might not be completely true, but maybe there’s some truth in it,” I suggest, echoing what Anatoly has always told me.

  “Maybe.” Ivan licks his lips and turns away. He looks as if he’s about to leave and suddenly I want him to stay more than anything. I feel like he knows something that might help me.

  “How did you lose your claw?” I ask.

  Ivan’s fur bristles. “A bear took my claw. A cub. But it was stronger than it should have been for its age. Unnaturally so.” Ivan glares at my bear feet and I shift uncomfortably. “I lost the respect of my pack that night and—like the wolf in your story—I’ve vowed not to return to them until I’ve proven my strength.” Ivan’s eyes glow and tension chokes the air between us. “I never forget a scent. As soon as I breathed yours, I remembered you. It was long ago, and you’ve changed, but I remember.”

  “What do you remember?” I whisper, confusion whirling through me.

  Ivan grins, all fangs and bloodred gums. “I remember you, but you don’t remember yourself.”

  A howl rises, followed by another, and another. They echo from far in the distance, but goose bumps still crawl across my flesh. The ache in my elbow intensifies and I stand, pick up the lantern, and hold it in front of me like a weapon. I’ve been so foolish, staying and talking to Ivan when I should have continued toward Anatoly’s cabin. I could be there now, safe and warm. But instead I’m here, chilled by cold winds and Ivan’s words and the howls of dangerous wolves.

  “My old pack is hunting.” Ivan lifts his head proudly, but there’s something sorrowful in his eyes. “If I were you, I’d find somewhere safe to shelter. You aren’t stronger than my pack. And you won’t be, even when you’re all bear.”

  “All bear?” The confusion whirling through me escalates into a tumultuous storm.

  Ivan looks at me pityingly. “Go deeper into the forest, then you’ll understand.”

  I flinch as another chorus of howls soars over the treetops. Ivan’s ears turn to the sound, followed by his whole body. He shudders, as if it’s taking all his effort to stop himself from chasing after his pack. Finally, he bounds off in the opposite direction. I stare after him, cold inching down my spine. But it’s not Ivan or the distant wolves that have scared me. It’s Ivan’s words: even when you’re all bear.

  He’s wrong. I’m not turning into a bear. I push the thought away and listen for the howls or footfalls of the wolf pack. But I can’t concentrate. Ivan’s words have thrown me into chaos.

  A small bird flutters above. “Yanka!” it calls. “Home in the forest!”

  I shake my head and look back in the direction of the village. I don’t want to hear the bullfinch, and I don’t want to feel the snow against my bear feet anymore. I lift a foot, to take a step back toward Mamochka, but it’s huge and heavy, with long claws at the ends of my toes. I can’t go back like this.

  “Yanka!” the bullfinch sings. “Yanka the Bear!”

  I turn to the dark trail, touch my arrowhead necklace, and imagine it filling me with the courage of a warrior princess. The answer to what’s happening to me lies deeper in the forest. I know it, the bullfinch knows it, and Ivan the Gray knows it too. Although his words have shaken me, they feel like proof I’m heading in the right direction. So I take a deep breath and walk on into the darkness.

  I scratch my neck above where Mousetrap is huddled, thinking it would be nice if he woke to keep me company. He stretches and yawns into my ear. “Is Anatoly’s cabin close?”

  “I hope so.” I nod. “We walked a good distance before Ivan stopped us.”

  “The wolf.” Mousetrap’s nose twitches as he sniffs the air. “It was interesting how you dealt with him: a scuffle and a story. Not what I’d have done, but it was good of you to take control. I’d have hated to silence him.”

  “Silence him?” I raise my eyebrows. “Up until I told the story, you were hiding in my pocket, shaking like a leaf.”

  “I was not hiding.” Mousetrap rises onto his hind legs and flashes his teeth. “I was assessing the danger before I attacked. I never silence a creature unnecessarily.”

  I press my lips together to stop from laughing as I picture Mousetrap fighting a wolf.

  “And”—Mousetrap lifts his snout high—“just so you know, I never shake with fear. I shake with fury.”

  A snort of laughter escapes from my nose and I try to hide it by coughing.

  Mousetrap’s fur prickles against my neck. “You’re being very impolite. But I’ll forgive you because you don’t yet understand how exceptional my hunting skills are.”

  “You said it was a deer.” I glance sideways at Mousetrap.

  “A deer?”

  “When I asked you what the noise was, you said it was a deer. Not a wolf.”

  “You misheard me. I told you before, you don’t listen properly.” Mousetrap squeezes back into my collar and starts snoring immediately.

  I groan in frustration. I wanted Mousetrap’s company, but I’ve only managed to offend him. He wriggles around so his back is pressed against my neck and I decide to settle for the comforting feel of his warmth instead.

  The trail is narrow, barely visible in the darkness. With no way to light my lantern, my eyes ache from straining to see, and it takes all my concentration to make sure I don’t drift from the path. Hours seem to pass before the trail twists out of the pines and becomes lit by moonlight.

  A sled track scars the surface of the snow, and my heart lifts as I think of Anatoly riding across here. I wonder if he’s in the cabin I’m heading toward. He’d be so surprised to see me! I imagine him taking me in to be warmed by his fire, maybe offering me some broth and bread. He might help me plan where to go next in the Snow Forest, to look for clues to my past. Energized by these thoughts, I walk faster.

  Soon I spot Anatoly’s cabin in a clearing at the top of a steep slope. It’s as cold and dark as the night around it. No light from the small windows. No chimney smoke curling into the air. I know before I reach the door that he won’t be here.

  “Where do you think Anatoly keeps the cod?” Mousetrap sits up on my shoulder as I unbolt the door. There’s no need for locks in the Snow Forest—people rarely wander this far from the village—but bolts keep out wolves and bears. The thick wooden door creaks open and Mousetrap runs down my arm, jumps off my elbow, and disappears into the pitch-black.

  I step inside too, bolt the door behind me, and let out a long sigh of relief. Anatoly might not be here, but at least I’ve found somewhere safe to rest. I lean back against the door and so much tiredness crashes over me I nearly sink to the floor. But I need to get warm and check my wound from Ivan.

  “Mousetrap?” I call into the darkness, and he scampers up my coat and rests a paw on my cheek.

  “What is it, human girl?”

  “Just checking you’re all right.”

  “I’m fine, but I can’t smell any cod.” Mousetrap’s furry face furrows.

  “What about candles and matches?” I ask.

  “Beside the log burner.” Mousetrap points with his nose and I shuffle forward as my eyes adjust to the darkness. I find candles, light them, and spread them around until the shadows fall back and the room fills with a warm yellow light that reminds me of my and Mamochka’s house. The sun will rise in a few hours and Mamochka will wake to find me gone. I look around to distract myself from the thought.

  Anatoly’s cabin is smaller than I remember but hasn’t changed otherwise. It’s neat and tidy and filled with practical things: pots and pans, metal tools and wooden hide-stretching frames, piles of leathers and furs, and sacks of grains and salt that hang from the rafters so mice can’t reach them.

  The cabin smells of Anatoly—of tea with lemon, fresh snow, woodsmoke, and o
ld furs. I inhale to catch more of his scent and wonder when he was last here. Kindling and logs have been stacked in the burner and a tinderbox has been placed in front of it. It feels like he was expecting me, although it’s more likely he leaves the cabin ready for his own return.

  I light the fire and lift the already-filled kettle on top of the burner. Flames curl around the logs, and warmth ripples through the air. My hands itch as blood flows back into my fingers, and my elbow throbs where Ivan bit it. I peel off my coat and roll up my sleeve to examine the wound. The skin is blotched purple and blue but isn’t broken. If Mamochka was here, she’d apply a Spongilla grass poultice. I pull my sleeve back down. It’s only a bruise. I wonder if it was my coat that protected me, or whether Ivan chose not to bite too hard. His fangs were certainly sharp enough to pierce my flesh, if that’s what he’d wanted to do.

  “I still can’t find any cod,” Mousetrap grumbles from a high shelf stacked with jars and tins.

  “Maybe there’s something else you’d like?” I wander over and read some labels. “Pickled herring?”

  Mousetrap screws up his nose. “I’m going hunting.” He dives off the shelf and sprints toward a crack between the floor and the wall.

  “Don’t leave the cabin,” I shout after him.

  He pokes his head out of the crack. “I can take care of myself, you know.”

  “I know. It’s just …” I want to ask him to stay, to keep me company, but the words won’t form. “I’m sure I heard a mouse under the floorboards,” I say instead.

  “If there’s a mouse, I’ll catch it.” Mousetrap nods and disappears into the crack. Emptiness swells in the room until I sense the tiny vibrations of Mousetrap’s pawsteps through the soles of my feet.

  The kettle whistles. I make a cup of tea while eating one of the piroshki I brought with me. Then I remember the necklace of sweet sushki that Mamochka gave me at the festival. It’s still dangling around my neck, so I break off chunks of the hard, sweet bread rings and soften them in my drink.

  I don’t want to sleep until Mousetrap returns, so I sit in a chair by the fire and look at the stack of books on the table next to me. They’re mostly tattered old volumes about hunting, fishing, and trapping. Loose pieces of paper poke out of them, covered in sketches of trap designs and small-scale maps. I notice a book of poetry and another of short stories at the bottom of the pile. As I move the uppermost books to get to them, a few pieces of paper drift free and float to the floor.

  I lean down to pick them up and stop still when I read Anatoly’s neat handwriting on the top of the nearest piece: The Bear’s Child.

  Ivan’s talk of a bear cub and me not remembering myself echo through my thoughts, and my fingers tremble as I pull the paper closer. It’s one of Anatoly’s stories. One I haven’t heard before. His voice rises in my mind as I read the words, and with every sentence my heart beats faster—because maybe this is the story that will explain everything about me.

  Once upon a time, the Bear Tsarina, the strongest and gentlest creature in the Snow Forest, was asked to care for a newborn cub.

  The Bear Tsarina’s heart swelled with love and she promised to raise the cub as her own. Every day, the Bear Tsarina carried the cub on her back and showed her all the wonders of the Snow Forest, from the sunlight glittering in the canopy to the moonlight dancing on the streams. She showed her how to catch tender fish and find the sweetest, juiciest berries, how to dig dens among roots and make leafy beds that smelled of autumn all through the icy winter.

  The cub loved all these things, but what she loved more was to watch the humans who visited the forest—the woodcutters, the trappers, the fishermen, and the gatherers of healing herbs. The cub was pulled toward humans as the river is pulled downstream.

  No matter how much sunlight glittered in the canopy or how much moonlight danced on the streams, no matter how tender the fish or how sweet the berries, the cub always wandered away, distracted by the crunch of boots or the humming from a human throat.

  Seasons passed, and the cub began to look and act like a human too. She stood on two paws, laughed like a woodpecker, and sang strange, babbling songs. The Bear Tsarina’s heart cracked open, because she feared she’d lose the cub to the human world altogether. As she had lost her own cub, many years before.

  The Bear Tsarina watched from a distance, swaying from one great paw to the other, not knowing how to keep the cub, or how to say goodbye.

  Sometimes the cub would roll in pine needles or talk to a bird, and the Bear Tsarina’s heart would leap at the thought she might stay. But these moments were more and more fleeting … and then the Bear Tsarina realized it was too late. Winter was coming, yet the cub was losing her fur.

  Cold, wet leaves gathered in mounds, and worry settled heavy on the Bear Tsarina. How could she prepare the cub to live in a world she didn’t understand?

  Then with the first deep snow, a lady came into the Snow Forest, collecting frosted hawthorn berries. The Bear Tsarina read the lady’s soul and learned the lady had a kind heart and endless love to give. The cub’s eyes lit up at the sight of the lady, and the Bear Tsarina knew it was time to say goodbye.

  When the lady wandered close to the bear cave, the Bear Tsarina whispered into the cub’s ear, “This is your mother. She’ll take care of you now,” and she nudged the cub out into the snow.

  Though the Bear Tsarina knew the lady would care for the cub and help her live in the human world, her heart split in two. She rolled over, closed her eyes against the pain, and pretended to sleep as the cub stood on her back paws and walked away.

  The last of the cub’s fur fell and a smile warmed her cheeks as she looked up into the gentle face of the lady. Their souls swirled together, and the bear-child lifted her hands into the air, wanting to be held by the lady more than anything else. The lady picked her up and the child fit perfectly into her arms.

  A tear rolled into the fur of the Bear Tsarina’s cheek as the scent of the cub drifted away. She didn’t know if she’d ever see the cub again. But as the Bear Tsarina sank into the deep sleep of winter, she heard echoes of the cub’s laughter and she smiled, because then she knew that though the cub was gone, something of their souls would always be joined together.

  I lean back in the chair and imagine Mamochka, arms folded over her chest, telling me the story is nonsense. A bear cub turning into a human child—it’s impossible. But then I look down at my legs.

  There’s a blanket on the arm of the chair. I pull it over me, but it doesn’t hide the shape of my legs, and my claws poke out. So I close my eyes.

  A memory climbs into my mind, of standing on the Bear Tsarina’s back, on four paws. I tell myself it’s my imagination—that I’m fired up by what Ivan the Gray said and this ridiculous story. But it feels real.

  The fur on my legs rustles and my claws splay wide as I stretch, and the sensations are suddenly familiar. Lost memories force their way to the surface …

  I remember rolling over to cover my fur with the scents of dry earth; licking my snout with a long, wet tongue; my ears swiveling to the sounds of fish splashing.

  I remember being all bear.

  Cold creeps over me, and though I’m sitting still, I feel as if I’m falling through the air, about to crash into the ground.

  I’ve spent my whole life feeling unsettled in the village, like I didn’t fit. But it never occurred to me that might be because I’m not meant to be with people—with humans—at all. Maybe I’m meant to be alone in the forest. As a bear.

  Tears spill down my cheeks. For Mamochka. For Sasha. For all the things I love about the village but didn’t realize until now: the squat wooden houses that line the square; the hall with its carved, painted roof; the way everyone works together to build things for the festivals … even the way the villagers compare my strength to a bear’s. It might have made me feel different, but it was usually meant as a compliment.

  For the first time since I entered the forest, it occurs to me that I might neve
r be able to go back … and that makes me feel more alone than ever. I open my mouth to call for Mousetrap, but the words stick in my throat and I find all I can do is squeeze my eyes shut and cry myself to sleep.

  I’m woken by Mousetrap’s whiskers tickling my cheek. I open my eyes and flinch as a dead mouse swings into focus right under my nose.

  “I brought you breakfast.” Mousetrap nudges the carcass closer. “You were asleep when I returned from my hunt last night, so I caught this one fresh for you this morning.”

  “No thanks.” I wrinkle my nose and sit up.

  Mousetrap looks from me to the mouse. His mouth draws into a thin, offended line. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Nothing. I’m just not hungry.” I slide my legs out from under the blanket and look at my bear feet. I knew they would still be there—I felt their weight—but that didn’t stop me from hoping they might have disappeared. I wish none of this had happened. I wish I was in my house, with my own legs, having breakfast with Mamochka. My stomach rumbles at the thought.

  “Not hungry?” Mousetraps looks at my belly accusingly.

  “Not for mice.” I snap a couple of bread rings off my sushki necklace and pop them into my mouth, then shuffle across the floor, getting used to the feel of my new legs again. I unbolt the door, eager to breathe in the morning air and clear my head of gloomy, fruitless thoughts.

  Sunshine dazzles on the snow outside. I step into it, and the cold makes me feel awake and alive. A mouse darts through a tunnel beneath me, and the sensation is so magical I feel foolish for wishing away these feet. I lift my head into the air and laugh. “I have bear legs!” I shout at the trees, and my voice echoes back to me from every direction. Suddenly, I’m bursting to know more about my legs, and why I have them. I close my fingers around my arrowhead necklace. Where shall I go today?