The Bear and His Daughter Page 4

  “Yes, sir,” Evan said, not looking up. He tried to stand, but his legs buckled and he sank to the stool again. His legs were shaky, knees wobbling together. He sat back down and rubbed his thighs to get the blood flowing.

  Liz suddenly wondered how long Evan had been sitting on that stool.

  Could’ve been hours.

  Maybe longer?

  Surely not. There was work to be done.

  But they’d been out a long time. And Father’s knee had been terrible this past week. Mother had said that the pain was almost unbearable. It had started getting worse about half a year past, and Liz felt like they were getting closer to a dark line, a terrible line that could only be crossed one time—and then only in one direction.

  “How were the traps?” Father winced as he stood, his huge frame blocking out the firelight, his weight on his good leg, leaning on his heavy walking stick. When he stood, he seemed to fill the room. The stick thunked the plank floor as he walked. “Eh? How were they?”

  Father turned the bearskin chair back around to face the fire, took his iron poker from its hook, stabbed the logs, watched them spark as he speared them. He leaned against the chimney, savoring the fire’s heat, then reached inside his vest for his flask, paused—hand in his vest, as if having a second thought. He looked at the fire for a long time. His dark eyes flickered in its orange glow. Then he shook his head, closed his eyes, and tested his weight on his bad leg, flinching immediately. He pulled the flask from his vest, unfastened the steel catch, and drank deeply.

  Evan had finally managed to stand up from the stool. He walked unsteadily past Liz, winked his eye that wasn’t sealed shut, and gave her the barest hint of a smile. He grabbed his boots off their stand, took his coat off its peg, and stepped to the front door, out into the night. Liz kept her eyes firmly on Father.

  “Eh?” Father asked the fire, giving the logs one last poke for good measure. “The traps. I asked you a question. How were they?”

  “Not good, sir,” Liz said calmly. “But we took almost a half dozen more grouse on the way back in and we found this grey bear cub. Alive. I fed him. A grey bear, sir. And we found—.”

  “Grey cub?” Father swung around, turning with amazing dexterity despite his size and drunkenness. There was a strange look in his eye.

  “Yes, sir.” Liz swallowed, looking at him directly. “He’s been sucking on some of my tack. And grouse. He’s alive. Worth coin, sir.” As she said this, Liz stepped forward, opened her coat, and took out the cub, cupping its furry rump in the crook of her elbow, holding it out toward Father. The cub still slept. The white blaze on its chest glowed in the firelight.

  “And there was something else,” Liz began. “We found a dead—.”

  “Lemme see that here.” Father hung the iron poker on its hook and hobbled across the room, walking stick thunking. He plucked the bear cub from Liz’s hands by the scruff of its neck and held it up to the kitchen’s iron lantern, appraising it by lamplight, wincing slightly with the pain in his knee. The cub’s little legs hung straight down. Even his bent leg seemed almost straight. The little thing looked so small dangling there from Father’s huge fist. Its black nose gleamed. It didn’t wake.

  “Get that other lamp over here, Mother,” Father grunted.

  Mother fetched a clay lamp from the counter and handed it to Father. She eyed the bear cub curiously, then looked at Liz. Liz kept her eyes on Father. It was one of the tricks she’d learned in the last months: never take your eyes off him. Seek eye contact, seek challenge. Might not work with every dangerous man—but it had always worked on him. Father was holding the lamp up, giving the cub a close inspection. Then he put his ear to the cub’s chest. It didn’t stir. Father handed the lamp to Liz. She took it carefully, threading her index finger through the lamp’s finger loop.

  “. . . grey bear,” Father said, something different coming into his voice.

  Liz had heard that tone a hundred times before, but she knew better than to respond. She kept her chin up, shoulders straight, and her eyes on Father’s face. The new voice meant that they were almost through it.

  “Near dead,” Father said. He gently touched the cub’s prominent ribs and sunken stomach. “Starving.” He ran his hands over the cub’s limbs, pausing at its bent back leg, feeling the bowed bone, assessing the strange black dewclaw sprouting off the ankle. “Never seen anything like this,” he said as he fingered the cub’s weird claw. “Have to come off.”

  Without pause, Father drew his bone-handled knife from the small of his back and placed the cub on the kitchen table beside their water pitcher. He set the blade flat against the cub’s ankle, then cut away the weird claw where it joined the leg, like he was chopping a radish. There was only a little blood and the cub didn’t seem to feel it. Father set his knife down on the table beside his axe. Then he put his hand on the cub’s chest, cocked his head as if listening. He grunted to Mother. “Get me a coal outta the fire there. Small little one.”

  Mother went to the fire, used the poker to prod a small coal into the ash shovel, and came back to the table, bringing along a pair of iron tongs. The coal was dull orange and smoked slightly. Father took it with the tongs, then pushed it hissing against the spot where he’d cut away the cub’s strange black claw. The smell of burnt fur was immediate and the cub mewled, but didn’t really wake. Father nodded and handed the tongs to Mother.

  “Get me that cloth there,” Father said. “That clean?”

  Mother nodded, handed him the cloth, and then carefully put the other implements back in their places by the fire. Father ripped the cloth in two, folded one torn half over a couple times, then tied it tight ‘round the bear cub’s furry leg. He picked the cub up by the scruff of the neck, looked it over, put his ear to its chest again. The dewclaw lay on the table. It was long and curved, like the spine of some strange black plant.

  “A question, sir?” Liz asked.

  “Hmm.” Father grunted, looking at the cub. There was a strange look in his eye again. He reached for his silver flask—then stopped and shoved it back into his vest. He cleared his throat. “Make me some tea, will you, Mother?”

  “Of course,” Mother said, immediately getting to it. Liz saw that the kettle was already on the stove—and that it was already hot. Father’s huge clay cup sat next to it, warming up. A tiny canister of precious mint tea waited on the counter. Mother shot Liz a knowing glance.

  They were almost home.

  They’d been lucky.

  One black eye? These days?

  Oh yes, they’d been lucky.

  “What’s the question, girl?” Father asked.

  “Yes, sir.” Liz nodded, standing tall how she knew Father liked, looking him straight in the eye. “Sorry, sir. I was wondering: Why’d we take that claw off?”

  Father grunted and looked at her for a long moment. Then he handed the bear cub back to her and roughly tousled her hair, like she was a boy. It pinched a little, because of her braid, but it didn’t really hurt. Even in the worst of it these last months, Father had never hurt her. Or Mother.

  “The mountain way, girl.” He nodded. “Animal grows up with somethin’ wrong like that on him, he’ll tear it off himself or he’ll catch it on somethin’ and pull it off. Same reason we dock dogs’ tails. Get torn off and the wound gets infected and there goes all our hard work. That’s why we take it off.”

  Father looked at Mother and cleared his throat. “Clean those up.” He pointed at his knife and his axe, then looked at the table where he’d chopped off the cub’s claw. He blinked, frowned slightly at the damage that he’d caused to the table. “Yeah, if you clean those up, I’ll sand out that scratch there tomorrow. Polish it up. Won’t even notice it.”

  Mother bowed assent and poured hot water over Father’s tea; the smell of fresh mint was strong and immediate. Mother bought the tea from a s
hop down in the village, and that shop ordered it special from another shop down past the Trange, down in Korfort, and that shop, in turn, probably got it from a seller all the way down in Adara’s Hold—maybe even from as far away as Tarntown. Very expensive. Very strong. Good stuff. Liz didn’t know how they could afford it.

  Father was looking at her, waiting for her to say something.

  “So.” Liz cleared her throat, lifted the bear cub up to look at the bandage on its leg. “You cut it off now so he doesn’t hurt himself later. I understand.”

  Father looked at her for a long moment, then clapped her on the shoulder. Mother brought Father his tea. He drank half of it down in one gulp, set the cup down, turned to Liz, and cocked his head at the bear cub, pointing at its bad leg. “I want you to clean that dressing there in boiling water every mornin’, Lizzy. And then you put a fresh dressing back on, just as I did there. Like you saw me. Sharp and tight. Nice and clean. You’ll do that for a week, then we’ll see where we are.”

  “Yes, sir.” Liz nodded, but she didn’t really understand his final objective. Why fix the cub’s leg? What was the plan?

  Mother was clearing the knife and axe from the table. Father said to her, still looking at the cub in Liz’s arms: “When you’re done with those, get yourself on down to old man Jarlund’s and bring me up ten cups of fresh reindeer milk. Take our pitcher and borrow one off him. Tell him I’ll send a kid down for the same ten cups every day for the next six weeks. After that, I’ll want twice again as much for another twelve weeks.” As he said this, Father reached into his belt and turned out thirteen small copper suns, each one carefully polished. Father placed a coin into Mother’s hand. “You tell him this’ll cover it for the time being. I’ll be down there tomorrow mornin’ to work out the rest.”

  Mother looked at him for a long moment, a strange expression on her face.

  “What?” he grunted.

  “You want me to go now?” Mother asked. “It’s near midnight. He’ll be sleeping.”

  Father stared at her. His face had gone blank again. He took a deep breath. Mother looked him in the eye, like she wasn’t afraid of him in the least. But Liz knew it was all a lie—a kind of performance. Mother knew the game. The coin glimmered dully in her open palm.

  “You too smart to obey me now?” Father said. Then he chuckled—then frowned at himself, like he was puzzled by his own words—then he shook his head, clapping Liz on the shoulder. Liz looked at Mother. Mother was sad and angry; unlike herself. He never used to talk to her this way. It was as if something had snapped a few months ago—.

  “Look there, girl.” Father snorted. “Give a woman some coin and all a sudden she’s a merchant’s wife up from Korfort. Or maybe some high lady from ‘Dara’s Hold, eh? Ha! She sees six-pointed suns and all a sudden she’s down off the big mountain altogether, maybe all the way down in Tarntown thinkin’ she’s some kind of aristocrat—some kind of high born lady, eh? Ha-ha!” But he said this last part like he was slightly embarrassed, a weird frown on his face, like there was something else behind these particular words that he already wished he could take back. He took up his tea cup, looked into the cup, then drank deeply. Mother stared at him. He didn’t meet her gaze.

  “I’ll go right now,” Mother said tonelessly, took the pitcher from the table, and turned toward the door, but Father reached out, grabbed her shoulder, and slowly turned her around.

  “You know I’d go myself . . . .” He gestured down at his bad knee. “Maybe it is too late.”

  “No. You’re right.” Mother looked him in the eye and calmly patted his shoulder. She glanced at the bear cub. “He’s weak. He needs care. He’s helpless without us. I’ll go straight away.”

  Father made like he was about to say something else—but then he frowned and nodded, almost a little sheepishly. He held Mother by both shoulders and kissed her gently on the forehead. Then he shook his head, like he was confused by himself, released her, and took the bear cub up from Liz’s arms, looking it over once more.

  Mother placed the knife and axe on the opposite counter. Then she took her coat from its peg and her boots from their stand. She opened the door. Evan stepped back inside at the same moment, a wad of snow held against his eye. He looked at Mother, then the cub. He raised his good eyebrow at Liz. Liz shook her head once, then cocked her head at the sleeping loft. They’d talk about it up there, later. Evan nodded unnoticeably. Mother stepped out.

  “May I go to bed, sir?” Evan asked. He took the snow from his face. His left eye was purple-black and almost completely swollen shut.

  “Go on, son,” Father grunted. He glanced at Evan, then looked away and shook his head. He held the bear up again, looking it over. He cleared his throat. “How’s that eye?”

  “Good, sir,” Evan said. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Good boy.” Father nodded and took another long sip of his tea. “Put some snow on it tomorrow, too. It’ll help . . . .” It looked like Father was going to say something else to Evan—but then he stopped himself. Evan carefully put his coat and boots in their proper place, glanced at Liz, stepped to the ladder and up to the loft.

  Father moved the bear closer to the lamp again, then glanced at Liz. “You did a good job, Lizzy. Real good. We’ll start fattenin’ it up tomorrow. Pity we can’t sell it to a trainer. Or even to the rangers—Great Sisters curse ‘em all. That bad back leg . . . . It ain’t no good for fighting or war. Nothin’ but meat and fur, I’m afraid. Although . . . hmm.” He paused for a long moment, as if considering something else entirely. Then he shook his head. “I’ll take it down to village when it’s nice and fat. Maybe even down through the Trange, to Korfort. I wager ol’ Butcher’ll give me a couple hundred suns for it, maybe more if we feed it up proper.” He paused, blinked, and shook his head. “Imagine what we could do with two, three hundred copper suns up here, girl. Know what we could do?”

  “Anything at all, sir,” Liz said with a smile. She knew Father liked that. “Anything you wanted.”

  Father laughed, but it was no cruel chuckle. It was a deep belly laugh, long and true.

  In spite of herself, Liz smiled.

  “Too right.” Father looked down at Liz, squeezed her shoulder gently. He looked at the bear again. But he still had that strange look in his eye. Like he wanted to say something else. Like there was something else going on.

  “You think you can take charge of it, Liz? It’ll take time, I can tell you that right now. And it’ll be hard—especially at the end. You’ll have to give it milk eight, nine times a day for another year or so and then whole food for ‘nother year at least. Its meat’ll be best eating at about two years, I reckon, but it’ll be gettin’ real expensive to feed then, too. And big. We’ll have to figure it close . . . figure it real close. A city man, down past Korfort, around Adara’s Hold and lower down yet, he’ll pay well for the meat of a grey bear. Forbidden delicacy. And there are still places up north, old Konungur strongholds way up past the big mountain, where the mountain way is strong, meat of a proper grey is rightly prized—no matter what those cursed fools in the Tarn say. Ol’ Butcher’ll see that, sure as it’s winter. You got the patience, girl? Can you do it? Big task. Could make fifty times the coin we put into it, maybe more. Eh?”

  “Yes, sir.” Liz nodded, lifted her chin. “You can count on me, sir.”

  “Always can, Lizzy.” Father grunted, squeezing her shoulder. “Always can.”

  He handed the bear cub back to Liz, then touched his vest where he kept his flask—but he didn’t reach for it. Instead, he took a sip of his tea, almost finishing it off. Liz held the cub next to her chest, in the crook of her arm, and stepped back beside Teagan. Father turned to the table, picked up the cub’s black dewclaw, considered it for a moment, then handed it to Liz.

  “You keep this,” Father said gruffly. “Good luck for a mountain girl. You earned it. We’ll
drill a hole in the top there tomorrow, thread a cord through, make a nice trophy you can wear. Eh? Like a proper trapper? Can’t believe how tall you’re getting.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Liz said. She took the claw, leaning the cub on her hip. It was smooth and very sharp. She’d never seen anything like it. She put it in her pocket.

  “Now, let’s see what this one’s got here.” Father turned to Teagan, walking stick thunking, staring at the big bundle Tee still carried over his shoulder. Father touched at his flask in his vest, but didn’t take it out.

  “Eh?” his eyes flashed.

  It was the most dangerous moment, the edge.

  “You stupid and mute? What you got there worth riskin’ frost’s bite, boy? Didn’t I teach you anything ‘bout wood lore? Winter? Mountain ways? You understand what ‘cold’ means? Freeze yourself solid like that, running around out there half naked like a fool.”

  Teagan kept his head down, kept his teeth locked together, and swung his cloak out in front of him, opening it for Father to see the two dead bear cubs inside. They clung to each other, just as Teagan had found them, two small furry shapes, frozen together, their little heads tucked down into each other’s chests. Father leaned forward slightly. Teagan shrank into himself.

  “Figures.” Father shook his head and squeezed Liz absently on the shoulder. “Lizzy here, she brings home a live grey bear gonna be worth a few hundred suns in time, the big brother brings back a sack of frozen bones.” Father stepped up to Teagan, towering over him—then he grabbed his chin, pinching it, lifting Teagan’s eyes to his. He looked down into Teagan’s face, squeezing the boy’s chin ‘til it turned white. Teagan clamped his eyes shut. Father’s other hand curled into a massive fist.