The Shadow of the Bear: A Fairy Tale Retold

by Regina Doman

  “Yes.” Rose looked around at rows of shelves, suddenly doubtful. “At least on the outside—”

  “He’s probably just blocked them off, but if you could hear through them, they must be here somewhere.” Fish leapt to his feet and began feeling along the walls.

  Blanche’s hands looked very small, grasping the wrought iron handles. The doors looked as though they were locked. But when she pulled, they opened.

  She stepped inside the vestibule, and crossed herself out of habit. After all, it was a church. The heavy door swung shut slowly, and the bar of dim light from outside grew thinner and thinner until it vanished into the grey.

  She took another step into the dark and found the doors to the main body of the church. She pulled them open.

  According to the murky walls, the sun was as good as down. Inside was a forest of shaded pillars, ghostly outlines of marble statues. The somber light above sent down faint beams through the far-off windows. But most of the church was overborne in black reverberations and emptiness.

  Blanche walked forward, the huge canopy of the hollow building stretching over her. Row after row of empty pews passed her by. She continued on, unsure of what to do, moving in and out of the shadows cast by the columns in front of the stained glass windows, with white light shining here and there through missing pieces like broken teeth. The echoes distorted each sound she made.

  She reached the sanctuary and stood in front of the marble altar rail. There in the obscure interior of the holy place was something ebon and hulking. At first, her heart stopped in fear, then she recognized it.

  “Bear?” she whispered, her voice shaking with panic.

  There was a rumble, and a movement. Something clinked against the marble, and the ragged shape raised its head.

  “Who’s there?” his voice was low, strained. She saw his face, grey and fuzzy in the semi-darkness, with an inky stripe of blood on one cheek.

  She went and knelt in front of him. “What happened to you?” He was lying on the floor of the sanctuary with his hands handcuffed around the marble post of the altar rail. His shoulders were sunken, and his eyes were glazed, almost subhuman. She scarcely recognized him.

  He stared at her woozily, like a drugged animal. “You shouldn’t be here. Go away.” The words were only sounds, with no meaning.

  “Who did this to you?”

  “Black dwarves,” he said thickly and buried his shaggy head in his arms. “Go away. I told you to go away.”

  “Bear—”

  There was a subdued snicker from behind. Blanche turned and saw the phantom outline of a man coming towards her. His hand held a gun that gleamed in a patch of light.

  “He’s suffering from a slight concussion, as you can see,” a harsh voice said. “But he won’t be suffering much longer.”

  Rose pushed as hard as she could, while Fish dragged one of the shelves away from the wall. She was amazed at how much of his vitality had returned, even though he was obviously in worse shape than she was, after his imprisonment.

  “How are you feeling, Fish?” she asked.

  “Not good, but that’s a lot better than dead,” he answered cheerfully. “Ah! Yes, you’re right—there are windows.”

  He pulled on something, and there was the sound of tape ripping. Suddenly the failing evening light poured into their cell from a small rectangular pane that had been hidden by black cloth and padding taped to the wall.

  “But there are bars on them,” Rose observed, her sudden hope quickly dying.

  He looked at her with an amused expression. “Yes, I noticed that.”

  Blanche straightened herself and tried to force her eyes to see the man in the dingy light. But he remained a blur, except for the gun, which was terribly real.

  “There was no need for you to come inside. You might have spared yourself this,” he said.

  “I had to come,” Blanche murmured. “There wasn’t any other way.”

  The man laughed. “You’re made of the same stuff as these crazy boys, I see. No wonder they gravitated towards you and your sister.”

  With a sickening jolt, Blanche remembered Rose. “Where is she?”

  “Do you believe in the afterlife?” The voice in the dark was mocking. “If there was an afterlife, perhaps you’d meet her there.”

  Blanche heard the words, but all she saw was Rose, singing as she walked down a river of blood.

  “She decided she’d rather die than see me kill the other boy. But, like the fatuous Christian martyrs, hers was ultimately a pointless sacrifice. After you give me the paten, both boys will die. And you, too, I’m afraid.”

  Blanche said nothing.

  “You are terrified, aren’t you?”

  Blanche still was silent.

  “Good.” The man stepped forward, a faint shimmer of light illuminating his creased, cold face. Blanche recognized him. “Then this will be easy.”

  While Rose watched, whispering a prayer, Fish examined the chalices on the shelves. At last he selected a heavy one and pulled aside the curtains from the cellar window. “Rose, get me a rag or some kind of cloth,” he directed her in a composed voice.

  She found a polishing cloth on one shelf and handed it to him. “Good enough,” he remarked, wrapping it tightly around his hand. Then he picked up the chalice, and smashed it against the basement window. The glass cracked and he pounded it again. Rose winced at the racket it made, although theoretically she knew it would be good for them to make noise.

  Now Fish was picking away at the glass from the window.

  “But what about the bars?” Rose persisted.

  “Have a little confidence in me, okay?” He shot her an ironic glance, then cupped his hands and shouted out the window, “Help! Murder! Police!”

  Mr. Freet was coming towards her. Her eyes were fixed on the gun, its muzzle enlarged by a silencer, heavy in the muted light.

  “Give me the paten,” Mr. Freet was saying in a calm, reasonable voice.

  The gun was flecked with black. The flecks swelled into spots, which began to fill her eyes. Blanche shook herself, and the engorged inkiness fled. She felt her head careening.

  “You’re ill, I see. Come on now, give me the paten.” Mr. Freet continued slowly up the aisle, his hand outstretched.

  Blanche held on to it tenaciously. “I can’t give it to you. It’s not mine to give.”

  There was a harsh laugh. “You can’t keep it from me!”

  For an instant, unconsciousness threatened to overpower her again, and again she forced herself to fight through the fog. Quickly making up her mind, she turned boldly towards the altar and stumbled up to it before her will could forsake her.

  She lifted up the heavy golden dish, set it down on the bare surface, and let it go. She turned back to the dumbfounded Mr. Freet. “Take it from there if you want it.”

  With a gravity she was not aware she possessed, Blanche stepped off of the platform and walked towards Bear. He was crouched on the ground, his chained hands hugging the pillar, his eyes sharp like a wild animal’s as he watched Mr. Freet.

  “Idiot!” cursed Mr. Freet. But his attention was consumed by the paten. Keeping his gun trained on Blanche, he stepped greedily into the sanctuary towards the altar. The floor creaked warningly beneath his weight.

  Blanche almost didn’t see what happened next. With a roar, Bear swung his foot around and swept Mr. Freet’s legs out from underneath him. He fell forward heavily, his gun arm crashing through the rotted boards of the floor. Bear leaped towards him as far as the handcuffs would allow and kicked at him furiously. Mr. Freet struggled in the hole, twisted on his side and fired. Three bullets tore up through the floor, blasting splinters of moldy wood into the air. Bear shouted and fell, his arm erupting in a spray of blood. Almost before she realized what she was doing, Blanche seized the brass candle lighter from against the wall and aimed a blow at Mr. Freet. He fell back again, and she heard the boards below him give way. Freet disappeared through the floor as abruptly a
s if the ground had opened to swallow him alive.

  It seemed that Fish and Rose were shouting at the window a long time before someone took notice. A Hispanic man in painter’s coveralls rushed down the alley towards them.

  “What is the shouting for?” he asked them.

  “We’re trapped in this cellar. Call 911. Tell the police that there’s a murder about to be committed in St. Lawrence Roman Catholic Church. They better get over there right away!”

  “St. Lawrence,” the man repeated. “Right.” He ran back to the street and shouted something in Spanish. Fish turned to Rose with a dire expression, his eyes doubtful.

  “Let’s pray they get there in time,” he remarked.

  Blanche and Bear clung to each other in the darkness of the church beside the gaping hole. She couldn’t move, and Bear was still handcuffed, his arm bleeding profusely. But he had regained his human form, and was speaking coherent, soothing words. “All shall be well—didn’t I say that? Blanche, it’s all right.”

  But the last vestiges of her strength had collapsed, and she was sobbing openly.

  “Peace. All shall be well,” he said again, kissing her forehead. She leaned against his shoulder and tried to calm herself.

  “God was here,” she said at last.

  Bear put his lips against her tangled hair. “I know,” he said. “He lives in weakness.”

  Suddenly there was the sound of a ricocheting bullet. A piece of pulpy wood hanging over the gap was thrown into the air.

  Bear shoved Blanche onto the other side of the altar rail before she realized what had happened. “Run!” he ordered her. “Get the police!”

  She bolted down the aisle, and heard Bear’s voice as she went, “Cut it out, Freet. You’re only digging yourself further into the pit.”

  Another shot came, and a voice emanated from the grim hole. “Tell the girl to come back, Arthur. I’ve got you in range, now. And you know you can’t go anywhere with those handcuffs on.”

  Blanche froze in the center of the aisle.

  “You don’t have many bullets left, do you?” Bear said coolly. “I’ve been counting.”

  “I have one more,” Mr. Freet’s voice said. “And I’m ready to use it.”

  “Look, Freet,” Bear said patiently. “Even if you shot me, you still wouldn’t be able to get out of the cellar before Blanche got the police. And why should you add on another murder? On the other hand, if you let me live, you’ll get off with fewer charges. You’d be better off taking whatever chance you can get.”

  Faintly, Blanche heard the sound of sirens in the background. Police. But they wouldn’t be coming here, would they?

  “It’s over, Freet. You’d be better off quitting now,” Bear went on. He looked up at Blanche, and he seemed suddenly very far away from her. The gap of eternity had opened up between them. Her throat contracted.

  “You don’t understand, Arthur. It would be very satisfying to shoot you.”

  “A costly satisfaction,” Bear said.

  “Or I could shoot myself,” Mr. Freet added.

  “I wouldn’t advise it,” Bear said.

  “Of course not. You’re such a moralist. But it would solve a lot of problems for me. I’ve broken some bones, and I can’t possibly get away before the police come. Wouldn’t you rather I shot myself than you?”

  “Honestly, I wouldn’t. I’m not fond of you, Freet, but I won’t wish hell upon you.”

  “You would if you knew everything I’ve done,” Mr. Freet’s voice cackled.

  “I know enough,” Bear said evenly, although Blanche saw he was struggling to hold his composure. “I can guess the rest.”

  “And none of that makes you want to send me to hell?” Mr. Freet said derisively.

  “What I want doesn’t matter,” Bear said with the same calm voice.

  “So you’d prefer I shot you?” Freet asked.

  Bear shrugged.

  “No!” Blanche cried. She couldn’t be so intellectual about this.

  Mr. Freet’s laughter echoed weirdly on the walls, a disembodied voice coming from the cellar. “She’s more sensible than you are, Arthur.”

  “She doesn’t want to see me die,” Bear said, almost unconcerned. He was not looking at Blanche. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from him.

  “Do you know why I strangled Fr. Raymond after I shot him?” Mr. Freet’s voice asked.

  Bear was quiet, and Blanche could see his body turn rigid.

  “Because he wanted to save your lives. He wouldn’t tell me where he had hidden the priceless set I wanted. I offered him the choice of living or dying, but he chose to die. For you.”

  “I guessed that.” Bear’s voice shook slightly.

  “And now you’ve made his death pointless. Because I am going to kill you. I just wanted you to know that—that you’ve wasted his death.”

  “It wasn’t wasted,” Bear said recklessly. “Go ahead, then.” He knelt down, shaking but erect, pushing his twisted bleeding arm against the altar rail.

  Suddenly a door banged in the back of the church and a voice shouted, “Police!”

  Blanche saw Bear jump, flying atop the altar rail as Mr. Freet fired again. Then suddenly several men ran down the aisles, pushing her aside. She stumbled and tried to run forward, but someone held her back. There were policemen pointing their guns at Bear, and at the hole in the floor. But her eyes were fixed on Bear’s body, slumped on the altar rail.

  She heard, as though far off, a policeman order Mr. Freet to drop the gun. Radios crackled behind her. She saw Bear’s head moving as he slid back onto the ground.

  He raised his head, and their eyes met. Slowly, painfully, he smiled at her.

  After what seemed like an hour of sitting in the cellar, waiting in anxious trepidation, Rose heard a car pull up in front of Mr. Freet’s house. Doors slammed, and two policemen ran down the alleyway. She tried to peer past Fish’s shoulders to see the men, but all she could see were their boots.

  “We’ve been trapped in this cellar,” Fish explained. “Kidnapped.”

  “Is there anyone else in the house?” she heard one officer ask.

  “No. The kidnapper’s gone to St. Lawrence.”

  “We’re coming in the back,” the policeman said.

  “The door code’s six-six-six!” Rose shouted as the police ran down the alley.

  “I never thought I’d be glad to see a policeman,” Fish muttered. He offered her his arm to lean on as they walked up the cellar stairs.

  “By the way, Fish—thanks,” Rose said when they reached the top and waited by the door.

  “Oh, don’t mention it,” Fish said offhandedly. “Thanks for coming after me in the first place. You’re a good kid.”

  “I’m seventeen,” she said, slightly offended. She wasn’t a kid.

  “So old,” he said, and she thought she could make out his crooked smile.

  At long last, there were footsteps in the kitchen and the bolts on the cellar door were slid back.

  Fish and Rose stood blinking in the twilight at the two cops standing there with guns drawn.

  “It’s just us,” Fish said, raising his hands. “We’re the ones you came to rescue.”

  “And thank God you came,” Rose added, stepping forward shakily, suddenly realizing that the adventure was over. She felt inclined to kiss the linoleum floor.

  One of the cops raised his thick black eyebrows in astonishment, recognizing her. “If it isn’t Miss Brier,” he said, putting away his gun. “I suppose you forgot your keys again?”

  Officer Cirotti’s voice was intimidating as before, but his eyes were amused.

  Rose managed a smile. “Can I call my mother?” she asked.

  Chapter 20

  THE TWO GIRLS stood in the shadows of the hallway, gazing at each other. Blanche was wearing a white linen dress with a lace collar. Rose wore a linen flowered print frock, scattered with red roses and leaves. She held a straw hat with trailing ribbons in her hands.

  “
It’s hard to believe, isn’t it?” Blanche murmured, running her hands over the material of the dress. It felt even richer than it had looked that one night in the store window.

  “I can’t imagine how he found the very dress we were admiring that night after the opera. It must be the first time in the history of shopping that a man ever remembered the name of a woman’s clothing store,” Rose laughed. She turned her sister around and began to adjust the white roses that she had woven into Blanche’s braids.

  “Not just that. I mean, everything that’s happened,” Blanche said, wincing as her sister pulled a stray hair. “Mr. Freet being captured, you and Fish turning up alive—and yes, these dresses. Are you sure you don’t want to wear the white one?” Blanche asked, turning back to her sister.

  “Oh, no. The delicate shade suits you better. You’d be overwhelmed in a big print like mine. Besides, I think Bear bought the rose dress for me. After all, that’s my name.” Rose set the hat on her red hair and adjusted it. “I am glad that he remembered to buy me a hat, though.”

  “I don’t even like to think about what these presents cost him,” Blanche confessed.

  “Well, I suppose he would say it was worth it. Besides, now that he’s been exonerated from the drug charges and gotten his inheritance back, he could buy us dresses like these every day if he wanted to.” Rose put a hand on her hat and spun around so that her skirt flared satisfactorily.

  “Ugh! That would ruin it!” Blanche shivered and smoothed down the sleeves of her dress. “It would be sort of like having chocolate mousse for breakfast every day—too much!”

  Rose was inclined to agree. “Still, I’ll never forget how I felt when that man from the store knocked at the door and brought in these two huge boxes. I had no idea what they were! Oh, and the wrapping paper—floral outside and silver inside! It was a treat just to open the box, let alone to see what was inside.” She arched her back and gave a luxurious sigh. “I must say, Bear has good taste. It would have taken me years to pick out a dress that I liked on my own—and I like this one very much.”