by David Bruns
The Bear’s Child
by Harlow C. Fallon
For the past hour I’ve followed buzzards circling in the sky, looking for the spot where death has drawn them. Where I hope to find enough unspoiled meat to get me through another day. When I arrive and scare the buzzards off, I find the corpse of an Icarite. One less Icarite in the world is one less pain in my ass. But I’m still annoyed that I’ve lost a meal.
There isn’t much left of him; the buzzards have taken care of that. By his clothing I know he’s one of their hunters. The Icarites have hunted me often enough. I have the scars to show for it. By the arrow protruding from his ribcage, I see this hunter became the hunted. The irony isn’t lost on me, but he’s no concern to me now. I still have to find food.
It’s hot out on the grasslands. The green scarf I keep wrapped around my head keeps the sweat from my eyes, but my shirt clings to my skin where the sweat trickles between my breasts. I raise my canteen to my mouth. Only a dribble comes out. I know where I can get water, but food is more urgent, and less plentiful.
I should be enjoying my time alone, but there’s never any joy in it. Always, it’s about survival.
I shade my eyes and stare into the distance. My vision fills with prismatic light—it’s the disease leaching into my brain. The air is full of rainbows; my sickness is a monster wearing a mask of beauty. I blink to clear my eyes, straining to see if I’m alone in the wide sea of grass. Phantoms rise up to mock me, to catch me off guard. They gather substance, then dissipate like smoke. More tricks the disease plays on my mind.
The high wall surrounding Icarus is barely visible from where I stand, but it still feels too close. I need to move on, back to the safety of the woods and the mountains, before another Icarite hunter finds me.
My empty stomach rumbles as I fall into a steady lope. My legs also protest, but I ignore the ache and adjust my stride, compensating for my limp as I always do. When I reach the tree line, I wait for that elusive feeling of safety the forest sometimes provides. But it never comes.
I kneel at a familiar stream and satisfy my thirst, then fill my canteen. I’m always at a disadvantage when using my left arm—my good arm—for anything but wielding a weapon. My right arm is weak, my hand mangled. Only my thumb and the nub of my forefinger remain. It’s the price I paid for escaping an Icarite trap that almost took my life two years ago. An arm for a life. No argument there.
As I cup more water to my mouth, I listen for out-of-place sounds—the snap of a twig, the crunch of leaves underfoot. My hearing is the one good sense I have left, and it’s honed to a sharp edge. I don’t hear anything, but I’m aware of a presence just inside the trees. Without turning around—I need the element of surprise—I slip my knife from its sheath.
“No need for that, Anya.”
I jump to my feet and face him. Gunther. My brother. We share the same blood, but there’s no love between us. He’s older than me by four years, but the disease that claims us all outside the Wall of Icarus has ravaged him less than it has me. He still has most of his hair. He stands straight. There’s little weakness in his flesh and bones.
He treats me like I’m at death’s door, but not in a kind, protective way. He lords his condition over me, and I hate him for it. Gunther despises me because I wander alone, away from our clan. Because I don’t act like a woman. He resents that I leave him to care for our ailing father, a job the daughter should do. He envies my freedom. My willingness to take it.
Gunther looks to the west. “Storm coming.”
I follow his gaze and see the bare wisps of cirrus clouds marring an otherwise clear blue sky. “Not for a while,” I say. “Tonight or tomorrow.”
Gunther shrugs in his indifferent manner, as if what I say matters little. “Bode is asking for you. You should come home.” It’s not a request, and he doesn’t wait for me to respond. He turns and disappears into the woods.
Bode is our father. The harshness of our lives has stripped us of any desire for endearing terms. I feel little connection and no obligation to him, or to any member of our clan. The disease has hardened us, made us resentful. We congregate only because we stand a better chance of surviving in a brutal world where food is scarce. Where nature has become a wrathful, unpredictable demon.
But we aim most of our resentment at Icarus—a city built as a shrine to itself. Before Bode was born, the world was in turmoil. There were gods of war and hunger and hardship. Gods of madness. Then other gods came—gods of science who believed they could perfect those things that had always resisted perfection: the human body and the weather.
But traveling the road to perfection means there are always failures left in the ditches. We, the Ferals, as they like to call us, are those imperfect missteps. We’ve been discarded like trash outside the city wall.
Abandoned to deal with disease that can’t be restrained, and weather that won’t be subdued.
But inside the wall—under an invisible dome where light and precipitation and temperature are well ordered—life is comfortable. Icarus worships at its own feet, and its perfect residents flourish, disease free. Their immunity was earned through our suffering.
We are the Ferals, the bastards Icarus refuses to claim. But imperfection is insidious; the Feral undercurrent pulses inside the city wall. When the Icarites realized they could never tame the demon of their own fears, they soon learned they could at least appease him. And so the Icarites hunt us for sport. It’s how my mother died, and why our clan has been reduced to a few dozen.
* * *
Our camp is always well hidden, and we never stay in one spot for long. When I arrive, the clan is already packing up and preparing to move on ahead of the storm.
Bode huddles beside a small fire. When I join him, he pierces me with an icy gaze. His sunken eyes are clouded; they’ve seen too much suffering. He’s hard and wiry, in body and soul. Even though he’s not that old, the disease has aged him far beyond his years. He can’t walk without help. When the clan moves on, Gunther will have to haul him on a travois made of tree limbs and animal skins.
“About damn time,” he says by way of greeting.
I don’t feel like arguing. He knows I’m a loner; I’m tired of defending myself. “I found a dead hunter,” I say. “Arrow in his chest.”
Bode squints. “Whose?”
“Jamison’s clan, looks like.”
He nods and pulls his knees closer to his chest. “Good.”
That’s one thing we share, at least. An appreciation for dead Icarites.
Gunther shows up with a roasted rabbit skewered on a stick. My gut rumbles again in response, but he won’t share the meat. It’s meant for Bode and him. The rest of the clan shares, to an extent, but I’m not around enough to contribute, so I don’t eat.
“What did you want me for, old man?” I ask. I watch as Gunther splits the rabbit with his knife and hands Bode half. The smell of roasted meat wafts to my nose and my mouth waters. Bode eyes me for a minute, then tears off a piece and hands it to me. Gunther’s disapproving scowl follows.
Normally I’d refuse the gift, but I need food. It’s been two days and I feel weak and shaky. I nod my thanks to Bode and eat, avoiding Gunther’s glare. The rabbit is tough and gamy but I devour every bit of it. Then I suck the bones.
“Thought you might want to know where we’re headed,” Bode says between bites.
“I can follow your trail,” I say. The clan knows how to hide their movements from hunters. They’re good at it, but I know what to look for.
“Where’d you find that Icarite?” he asks.
“About a mile out. On the grassland.”
Bode levels a long look at Gunther and tells him, “Go find Jase. He’ll want to know. Icarites might come around thinking we’re to blame.”
Gunther’s sour expression deepens. I can tell he wants to argue. He wants to find a way to blame me for the dead hunter, for Bode’s order, for all the wrongs heaped on him.
“I’ll go,” I say.
They both look at me, no doubt a little surprised that I’m offering. Bode nods. I get up and make my way through camp, ignoring the iron glares of clan members as I limp past. No one cares for me much. I’m sure Gunther has a lot to do with their collective opinion. They condemn me because I’m a woman who doesn’t follow the rules. Since I contribute little, I’m worth even less. Truth be told, I prefer it that way. It’s easier for me to come and go as I please—to mostly stay away as I please.
I find Jase stuffing his belongings into a rucksack. Jase is the leader of the clan, as much as we have one. He’s the mediator of disputes and clashes. He represents us to the other clans. On his say-so, the group moves and resettles. He’s sharp minded and able bodied, which is saying a lot for a Feral. I like Jase, but I know the feeling isn’t mutual. He glances at me once and continues to work.
I squat down and wait for him to say something before I speak. It’s a gesture of respect we grant to those in leadership. He gives me another glance and says, “Hand me that cord there.”
I do as he says, watching as he shoves it into his pack.
“Something on your mind?” he asks, without looking up.
“I found a dead Icarite about a mile from here. Out on the grasslands. He had an arrow in his chest. Bode says you’d want to know.”
Jase pauses and considers my words. “Was it your arrow?”
I bristle at his question; it feels like a backhanded insult to my weakness. An indictment of my disobedience. Women aren’t allowed to handle a bow. But even if they were, my weak arm and mangled hand make it impossible.
“You know it wasn’t,” I reply in a cold voice.
His gaze shifts briefly to my hand. The look in his eyes confirms his assessment of me as useless. “You recognize the arrow?”
“Looks like Jamison’s clan.”
He nods. “Storm’ll be moving in by morning. We’ll be out of here before then. I doubt hunters will be wandering around with a storm lashing their heads.”
Sometime I get bad feelings, like an itch I can’t reach. They’ve saved me more than once from walking into danger. I have one of those feelings now.
“Maybe not hunters, but…” I trail off, reluctant to finish my thought. I know how Jase will receive it.
He throws me a skeptical glance as if he’s read my mind. “Flamers? You think those Icarite bastards are gonna hit us with flamers? When’s the last time that happened?”
I remember when. Eight years ago. I was a little girl, maybe ten, and our clan was on the move. We came upon another camp engulfed in fire as four flamer vehicles drove away from the massacre, back to the safety of Icarus. Why they’d unleashed such a demon on the clan, we never knew. Where was the sport in that? We couldn’t even tell which clan it was. The bodies were burnt beyond recognition.
“Maybe it’s been too long,” I tell Jase. “Maybe the demon can’t be held back anymore.”
Jase glares at me under a furrowed brow. “What the hell’s wrong with your head, girl?”
I stand up and step back. Jase won’t listen to me. He thinks I’m crazy, and I am. I know I am. My mind is slowly surrendering to the disease. I feel things, see things that aren’t shared by others. My thoughts are twisted. The disease mostly attacks the body, but for an unlucky few, it worms its way into the brain as well. As much as I try to fight it, I know it will take me—all of me.
“Never mind,” I say. “Do what you want.”
“Get the hell out of here, Anya,” Jase says, irritated. “I’ve got work to do. Unlike you.”
Anger fuels my need to get away. I’m mad that Jase has dismissed my concerns. Fear moves my feet. I’m afraid he might be right, that the bad feelings roiling in my gut might be a symptom of the chaos in my head. I don’t know what to trust and what to ignore anymore.
So I leave the camp, because alone, I can deal with it. Alone, I can let it knock me down like an angry gust of wind. I can wait until it passes, until I can rise up from it and see again. Until I can find my feet and my way again.
Dusk is settling in and a chilly wind has kicked up, chasing the day’s heat away. It’s a portent of what’s to come, I’m sure of it. Storms are always worse than expected. They’re unpredictable and violent, filled with fury. At least this time there’s some warning.
Despite my stiff muscles and fatigue, I find a steady stride through the woods as the rabbit settles into my stomach. I run quietly, my ears alert to danger in its many forms. There are hunters in the forest, and not just the human kind.
I make my way north to the foothills, where I know I can find safety. The clan will probably head the same direction. I’ll be able to find them easily enough if I want to, after the storm passes.
When I reach the hills, my jog slows and my ascent becomes a fight for every step, every handhold. I stop and rest more often than I should, but the energy given to me by the meager meal is almost spent. Thunder rolls like drums in the distance, and the cold wind carries a bite now. I shiver as I push on toward a place I know—a cleft in a rock face nearby, where I’ll be able to take shelter from the storm.
I’m nearly there when I hear the clatter of loose gravel behind me. Without looking, I know—an Icarite hunter is trailing me. Sometimes, no matter how careful I am, they find me.
He’s a damn fool for being out at night with the storm approaching. He must be inexperienced, with no idea what he’s in for. I could find a way to ambush him, but I don’t need to. The storm will do that for me.
I just need to run.
Adrenaline surges, and my fatigue dissolves. In the growing darkness, I change direction, heading further up the slope. I duck behind rocks, zigzag through trees and scrub to throw him off my trail. The wind’s fury intensifies as I climb. Needles of ice prick my skin. Flashes of lightning turn the night to day, revealing my position. This storm wants me, but I refuse to let it have me. Perhaps an Icarite sacrifice will appease its hunger.
I stop for a brief moment to catch my breath. I listen, but the shrieking gale is all I can hear.
Then I notice a glow in the distance. My heart drops. Fire consumes the forest, whipped to a frenzy by the winds. I understand now why the hunter is here.
My premonition has come true. Flamers have found my clan. The demon is free.
The storm lets loose all its rage. Is it punishing me for escaping the wrath of the fire? The wind knocks me to the ground as the clouds break open, unleashing a stinging downpour of icy rain. It hammers my body against the mountainside. Torrents rush down the slope, threatening to wash me away. I have to find cover. I scramble over rain-slick rocks and muddied ground, with water surging around my feet. I grab at anything I can to keep me anchored to the earth. I find a pocket under a tumble of boulders from an ancient rockslide and climb inside, shivering with cold as the driving sleet peppers the rock face. The storm blows in behind me, pursuing me, lashing at my back and legs. To escape it, I scramble deeper into the hole.
It takes me a moment to realize the pocket is actually a small tunnel that leads upward. I hesitate to crawl further in. An animal lives here—I can smell it. There’s the scent of old rot, and a pungent, musky odor.
The wind and sleet pummel the outside of the cave. Lightning cracks the air. I flinch, fighting back panic. My mind races through the possibilities of what animal might live here. I’ve faced predators in the forest and on the grassland—wolves, big cats, even bears.
Confronting any of these predators in a den terrifies me, but I have nowhere else to go. If I go back outside, the raging storm will kill me. If I stay in the tunnel, the cold and wet will pull the last bit of heat from my body and I’ll die of exposure. I’ve survived worse storms, but not when I’m exhausted, underfed, and weak.
I crawl a few more inches in. The air feels warmer. I’ll take my chances.
It’s pitch black inside. Lightning flashes don’t show me enough of the cave to ease my fears. But I feel my way along and find a dry floor covered with dirt and leave
s. I huddle against the cave wall and close my eyes so my ears will open wider.
There are clicking and popping noises, followed by a series of huffs. Something grumbles low in its throat.
Bear.
My pulse races, and I weigh my fear of this creature against my fear of the storm. Maybe if I sit still enough, if I don’t act threatening in any way, it’ll leave me alone until the storm moves on and I can get out.
I don’t mean to trespass, I think to the darkness. I’m just afraid.
I curl up tight and press into the wall, shivering. I can’t see the bear, but I know it sees me. I hear it breathing. So close I can almost feel its breath across the hairs of my arm. Or maybe that’s my fear brushing against me.
Every time I shift the slightest bit, the bear huffs. But it doesn’t attack. Maybe it’s just as afraid of me. Or maybe it understands I’m only looking for shelter.
I try to focus on the warmth in the cave; it’s a welcome relief. Gradually I relax, and my shivering stops. I fight to stay awake, as if that will somehow protect me if the bear chooses to attack. But soon I surrender to exhaustion, and the wailing storm invades my dreams.
* * *
When I open my eyes, I forget for a moment where I am. I don’t even remember falling asleep. I’m still curled up, my muscles stiff with an ache that reaches into my bones. My head feels thick and cloudy, and sparks of light fill my vision. The kaleidoscope of colors again, the beautiful disease.
I blink and clear my eyes. The storm has spent itself. Daylight has eased into the small space. Then I remember the bear and my pulse quickens.
From the opposite wall, I see it now, watching me with dark, round eyes. It’s close enough to reach out and touch. Its breath smells of death. I’m afraid to move.
The bear huffs once and wags its head as if to say, you’re a sad sight.
