The Bear and His Daughter Read online

  Liz held the food ball up to the cub’s nose.

  The cub turned its head, eyes still closed—and sniffed. A long pink tongue flickered out, tentative but most definitely interested. Then—magically, slowly—the cub opened its mouth and took the food ball. Its jaws moved, but it did not chew. Instead, it sucked the ball softly, its eyes still closed.

  Then it went completely still.

  Liz touched its back again.

  No response.

  Not good.

  She turned her ear to the cub’s mouth, holding her hand against its back, ready to push it away if it turned on her.

  Nothing.

  Liz took off her furry cap and put her ear down until it almost touched the cub’s nose, holding her palm firmly against its back. The little guy was too weak to be dangerous, but she still wanted to be careful. Her blond hair brushed against the mother bear’s fur. A bit of snow dusted the top of the cub’s head. She put her ear even closer to its nose, straining to hear.

  Then she smiled.

  Over the gusting wind, she could just make out a weak, whispering snore.

  7

  Even though they only stopped to eat and briefly rest it still took them two full days to get home. When they finally did arrive, it was three bells past nightfall. The wind had died and the sky had cleared. The huge moon was rising over the big mountain, a white circle climbing bright past the mountain’s black shadow. The stars were thick. The snow glowed blue with winter’s light.

  Teagan had found the grey bear’s den: a cave up among the ridge rocks. He’d also found two more bear cubs. They’d been bigger than their little brother, but both had died from hunger. Teagan had collected them just the same, slinging their poor little bodies over his shoulder in his fur cloak, facing the icy wind home in his hunting jacket alone, despite Liz’s protests. Liz herself had hiked back with the little grey cub tucked up under her fur cloak, under her coat, under her shirt, and finally under her long underwear, the little guy nuzzled directly against her chest. The little bear slept the entire way; it didn’t seem to weigh anything at all. After a while, its warmth had actually felt pretty nice—when it wasn’t pushing its cold nose into her skin.

  The entire way home, Teagan had been singing an ancient war song: Hakon’s March. For almost two days. Straight. Almost without breaks. Tee sang partly because he liked all the old songs, partly because he was terrified of wolves and he thought the songs kept them away—which they probably did, Teagan was a horrible singer—and partly because he was freezing without his cloak and the singing warmed him. He couldn’t hold a tune to save his life and had absolutely no rhythm to speak of, but Liz had joined him whole-heartedly for every chorus. (Or every other chorus, at least.) The hounds had done their part as well, howling to beat all. Only Soldier managed to keep his dignity intact, remaining silent for all but the most exuberant refrains.

  As they approached home, brother and sister sang even louder, their voices climbing hoarsely in the cold night air, the hounds spreading down and out in front of them in the moonlight, barking and bounding down the gentle slope into the shallow bowl of their clearing.

  “One m-m-more time, lads!” Teagan shouted, shivering, marching down into the clearing with his load over his shoulder, traps clicking, cap halfway off, cocking his big head side to side, not quite with the rhythm:

  Across the Silver Realm, high lords! March, march!

  Across the stars, through silver doors! March, march!

  We will not rest, we will not sleep, ‘til all lie dead beneath our feet!

  Let our steel strike shield for brother and men, high lords!

  When Teagan stopped singing, little Rosie turned back to him and barked.

  Teagan laughed, teeth chattering. “S-see, L-L-Liz? Sh-she wants us to s-sing it again. D-don’t y-y-you think?”

  Liz looked at Rosie. Rosie looked at Teagan, not taking her eyes off him.

  “Can you blame her?” Liz grinned, shaking her head. “You’re quite the singer.”

  “I th-think she r-really likes that s-song. See how she w-w-wants m-me to sing it again? Don’t she w-want me to sing it? I love that s-song.”

  “Hadn’t noticed.”

  “What’s th-that mean? ‘S-s-silver doors’?” Teagan asked for maybe the hundredth time.

  “Dunno, Tee.” Liz laughed.

  “Don’t m-matter.” Teagan shrugged, shivering. Then he grinned, pointing across the clearing. “We m-m-made it!”

  8

  Their house was a low cabin made of heavy fir logs set on a foundation of dark Konish granite. It was nested between two silver spruce trees at the far edge of their clearing, its deep front porch supported by heavy, dressed pines. The porch itself was perfectly swept, the chinking between the logs tight and neat. A thick granite chimney hunkered up the cabin’s southeast side, a thin wisp of smoke curling into the night. The small window centered high in the door glowed orange with welcome warmth. The cabin’s only other windows were the two facing northwest: the tiny one high up in their sleeping loft and the other one, slightly larger, in Mother and Father’s bedroom directly below it. The snow on the roof was piled high, at least ten palms deep. The smell of chimney smoke was home.

  “Race?” Liz asked Teagan. “Should probably get you inside.”

  Teagan didn’t reply. Instead, he hoisted his load on his shoulder and took off, running as hard as he could down into the clearing, nose up, cap almost falling off, traps clanking, loaded cloak banging against his back, little Rosie bounding at his heels, her eyes sparkling. Teagan made it to the cabin well ahead of Liz, but just before he reached the porch he stopped short and waited for her. Together they jumped up the porch’s two steps, smiling, stamping their boots, cleaning the snow off.

  Teagan hung the five empty traps they’d brought home on their proper hooks; none of the five traps had triggered, even though the bait had been taken, so they’d brought them back to Father for inspection. Liz took the oil pot from its cubby beside the door and gave each trap exactly three drops: one on each hinge and one on the spring plate. She returned the oil to its place, pulled the small hand broom off its peg, and brushed Teagan off, top to bottom. When she was done, Teagan did the same for her, careful not to brush too hard over Liz’s chest where the bear cub still slept. When they were done taking care of each other, they started with the dogs, cleaning each of the hounds carefully, paying special attention to their paws. Soldier got inspected twice, Liz checking the big mastiff a third time when Teagan wasn’t looking. When the dogs were finished, Liz hung the hand broom on its peg and chained the dogs to the iron ring beside the door. Then she took the two snow brooms off their nails and handed one to Teagan. Together, they swept the porch back to front, cleaned the steps, then shook the brooms out. When they were done, Teagan pushed his cap back on his head and looked at Liz, trembling with the cold. Liz inspected the porch carefully, paying special attention to the corners.

  Sharp and tight.

  Just like Father liked.

  Liz nodded and Teagan smiled, shivering. His lips were almost blue. They hung the brooms on their nails and moved together to the front door.

  “Dogs—sit,” Liz said.

  As a pack, all six sat together, noses up, looking at her with perfect attention, even little Rosie. Liz unchained them. Then she and Teagan took off their boots, holding them carefully with the soles up. Liz knocked on the door and unfastened her coat a bit so that she could reveal their surprise.

  Teagan grinned at her and whispered, “I c-can’t wait to see their f-f-faces when we show ‘em. He’s worth a lot of c-c-coin, right? Father’ll l-like that, right? R-r-right? Father’ll—it’s c-c-cold.”

  Mother opened the door.

  Liz smiled and stepped into the cabin’s warmth—and then she saw Mother’s face, and stopped mid-step, dead in her tracks
.

  Mother’s eyes were sad and angry—but she was trying hard to smile, trying hard to welcome them home. She clasped her hands in front of her and looked at the floor, almost like she was embarrassed, brushing absently at her worn apron. Liz had always thought Mother was beautiful. Even unhappy and scared and furious, she had this quiet, dignified beauty about her that was hard to describe. Golden blond hair, a brilliant smile, and intelligent blue eyes. She certainly had no equal in the village, not even down in Korfort. “A mountain man would kill for my wife’s eyes,” Father was always bragging to old man Jarlund and the other men down in the village. Then he’d look over at Liz, who was there in the tavern to make sure he got home properly. “You’re gonna look just like her, Lizzy. Taller, for sure. Way taller. But just like her, all the same.”

  Mother looked at Liz pointedly, then shook her head slightly at Liz’s questioning eyes.

  Behind Mother, the house was deadly quiet.

  Liz swallowed.

  Teagan had gone perfectly still, the blood drained from his face. Only his lips quivered.

  Mother looked hard at Liz, her eyes telling Liz everything she needed to know.

  “That them?” Father’s deep voice from inside the cabin, a bear’s growl. Soft, slurred with drink, low. And dangerous.

  “It’s them.” Mother gave a slight nod.

  But Mother’s eyes said something else entirely.

  We’re counting on you, Liz, her eyes said. We’re counting on your skill and craft. We’re counting on your mountain cunning to find a path through the dark pain and the bright drink—a path to your Father’s love.

  “They clean th’ porch off good ‘n proper?” Father asked, the words running together.

  Mother made a movement of looking past them at the porch and steps.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Let ‘em in, then,” Father said. He cleared his throat. “See what they gotta say for themselves. What they been doin’ out there this whole time.”

  Liz took a deep breath. She realized that her heart was pounding. She tried to calm it.

  Breathe. She nodded to herself. Think.

  “There’s a time for war—and there’s a time for wits,” Father would always say, when he wasn’t at his flask. “The mountain way. Hunter’s way.”

  This was the time for wits.

  Liz was Father’s favorite.

  Everyone knew it.

  So once again, as it had been for the last couple of years—but so much worse these last six months or so—her family would be counting on her to keep them all safe.

  Strange, how the entire trip back she hadn’t really thought of the danger that might be waiting for them. Too busy thinking about the dead grey bear, the dead ranger, the grey bear cub, keeping an eye on Teagan. So easy to forget that these days, on some nights, the most terrible thing on the big mountain didn’t live in the deep of the woods.

  9

  Mother opened the door and stepped back and aside.

  Liz looked at the hounds. They’d heard Father’s voice and were sitting completely still. Teagan’s face was white. He stared at Mother, his whole body shaking, and not just from the cold. He reached up as if to rub the scar on his temple, then snapped his hand down to his side. Father didn’t like it when Teagan rubbed his scar, especially on nights like this. Somewhere outside, the winter crow cawed.

  “Dogs—cage,” Liz whispered.

  The hounds stepped silently past Mother in single file, walked to their pine kennel, and immediately curled up in the furs. They made no sound, but looked at Liz sideways, eyes wide. Soldier sat at attention just outside the kennel, his chin high; impassive, but alert.

  Liz stepped inside the cabin and carefully placed her boots on their iron stand, soles up. Teagan did the same, his hands shaking. Then they stood next to each other, their shoulders touching in a perfect dress line, their furry caps held in front of them, eyes down, but their backs still at a kind of attention, how Father liked. Teagan was doing everything he could to keep from trembling. Mother shut the door behind them and stayed there.

  Father was sitting, like he always did, in front of the fireplace, in his enormous bearskin chair. His massive back was to the flames, so Liz couldn’t see his face—only his eyes. His scarred hands rested on the chair’s worn arms, his flattened knuckles moving slightly as he tapped his calloused fingers every so often. Father’s right leg was held out straight in front of him, resting on a stool, his right knee wrapped in a compress thick as a tree trunk. The compress was the reason that Father had been sending them out to check the traps these last couple weeks. He’d injured his knee a long time ago—Liz didn’t know how—and sometimes, when it was very cold, his knee would hurt so bad that he couldn’t work. So Father would stay home, the silver flask would come out, and he’d drink pine whiskey for the pain while his kids checked his traps. In the flickering fire shadow, Father’s eyes glowed like coals.

  And he wasn’t alone.

  Evan, Liz’s sixteen-year-old brother, sat beside Father on a stool. Evan was staring at the ground. He held a blood-stained rag to his nose and face. As if sensing Liz’s look, Evan glanced up and their gazes met. Evan’s left eye was entirely bloodshot, not a bit of white left in it, the lids and brow already puffy and swollen. With a motion almost too slight to be seen, Evan cocked his head subtly toward the kitchen table. Liz didn’t respond. Not even a twitch. Father was staring at her—and Father would detect the slightest movement.

  “Who left my axe outside there?” Father asked, his words thick and slurry. He lifted his chin in the direction of the kitchen table. His week-old beard was dense and black, just touched with grey.

  Liz looked at the table. Father’s hand axe lay there, a thin line of rust marring its edge. The leather wrist thong lay beside the axe’s handle, frayed, broken in the middle. The axe’s oak handle was entirely plain except for a simple silver leaf inlaid at its end.

  “Who left my axe outside?” Father asked again, softer.

  Evan cleared his throat. Father swiveled toward him and growled. “Not a word, boy.”

  Evan bowed his head.

  Without pause, Liz said: “Evan left the axe outside, sir.”

  Father swung his head up from Evan to Liz, his dark eyes glossy, deeply set under heavy brows. “You saw ‘im? You know for sure he did that?”

  “No, sir. I didn’t see him. But he told me right before we left, sir. That is, sir, he asked me if I knew how he should clean it. I told him he was a fool not to remember—and then I told him that he should use a whetstone and oil, just like you do, sir. That’s the proper way to take care of a tool, I told him. Fix it up in two moments, good as new, like nothing happened—.”

  “That one there he didn’t forget it?” Father growled and jutted a finger at Teagan, his eyes fixed on Liz’s face.

  “No, sir.” Liz glanced at Teagan, praying her brother wouldn’t say a word.

  Of course, Evan’s look had told Liz everything that she needed to know. And if Liz had known that Teagan had left the axe outside in the first place, then she’d have cleaned it properly before they’d left.

  But it was too late for all that. They were all in the lie now—all of them—even Mother.

  Father was a different man when his knee was hurting and the flask came out. They all knew that. He could still be decent and kind these days—even gentle, like he used to be. And he worked hard to provide for them; nobody could call him lazy. Liz knew he still loved them. (It was different now, these last couple years—and especially bad these last several months—but it was still true.) It was just when his knee was hurting—when he couldn’t work, get out on the line—that things got real bad. Then it was a different story. When the flask was out, he was a different man. A completely different person. Now wasn’t the time for truth and honesty. Now was the t
ime for them to protect themselves, to protect each other, and—in a weird way that Liz understood but couldn’t fully explain—to protect Father. To protect him from himself. They all knew what kind of words were necessary and what kind of behavior was required. Especially from her, Father’s favorite.

  Teagan was staring at the floor, his lips pressed tightly together. He shook his head back and forth, his whole body trembling. Then he began rubbing the scar along his sunken temple.

  “Stop touchin’ your face you,” Father said quietly

  Teagan rammed his hand to his side, head bowed, eyes shut, squeezing them tight, trying to stand up straight.

  Father glanced at Teagan, turned back to Liz—then stopped, looked Teagan up and down. “What kinda boy don’t wear his proper cloak out on a night like this, ask you truly. Mountain eat him alive the fool, don’t know its ways. Don’t know why I bother givin’ him one at all. Well?” Father’s eyes swung back to Liz. “You sure this one didn’t leave it out there? Seems like somethin’ he’d do—done it enough, reckon. You sure?”

  “Yes, sir.” Liz looked Father in the eye. “Absolutely, sir. Evan left the axe outside, sir.”

  “Hmm,” Father grunted, and gave Liz a long, hard look. It seemed to last forever. Liz returned it, unflinchingly.

  “Alright.” Father clapped Evan on the shoulder, nearly knocking him off the stool. “I thank you for the honesty, son. Yeah . . . . Takes a man t’ admit he done wrong, that’s the mountain way, sure.” He looked at Evan’s swollen eye, frowned—almost like he didn’t know how the black eye had happened—then looked at the fire.

  “Go put some snow on your eye,” he said gruffly to the flames, clearing his throat. “Don’t mind if you kids practice throwing your axes or knives back there, shooting and whatnot; why we set the range up in the first place, sharp and tight. But you need t’ take care of your tools. All you have up in here, understand? And you’re lucky t’ have ‘em. My ol’ man? He’d beat us senseless—me and Darro both, senseless I tell you—we do something like that. Not no strap on the backside, either. No little tap on the head.” He turned, held up his huge fist, and showed it to them. “You’re lucky he ain’t here, boy.” He looked at Evan for a long time, then looked back to the fire. “Anyway, you’re gonna give a quarter of your rations to Soldier for a week starting tomorrow breakfast. Seem fair to you?”