In the Shadow of the Bear

by David Randall

  “Oh, dear,” Waxmelt gasped. He plucked a faded red leaf from his gray hair and wiped tears of laughter from his eyes. “Goody will have a fit when she sees the yard looking like this. Fuss and botheration, rapscallion, I’ll have to clean it all over again. This is your fault.”

  “Who whisked leaves at whom?” Waxmelt smiled sheepishly and Clovermead giggled, until she remembered she was supposed to be angry with him. Then she didn’t know what to feel. “What should I do to help?” she asked hurriedly, springing up from the pile of leaves.

  “Feed and brush down Nubble,” said Waxmelt. “And remember to curry him lightly, Clo. You bruised him the last time.”

  “I hear and I obey, Father, though I still say he put on a false mask of pain to gain unwarranted sympathy and a bite of honey from his indulgent master. Do I give the simulating beast oats and barley?”

  “He deserves something better on such a beautiful day,” said Waxmelt. “Why don’t you mix in some honey mash, too?”

  “You are an old softie,” said Clovermead. She flicked a last leaf at her father and bounded away to the stable.

  Nubble whinnied with wary mistrust as she entered, as if he thought it likely that Clovermead would tie knots in his tail or paint him white or put blinders on his eyes and tickle him mercilessly for hours. “Silly beast,” said Clovermead affectionately to the roan pony. “I haven’t done anything like that in years. Well, not since last year. Anyway, you ought to trust my great maturity and restraint. You’re awfully silly to shy away from me—I’m here to groom and feed you. And guess what? Daddy said to spoil you rotten and feed you honey mash.” Nubble’s ears pricked up. He snorted and nuzzled up to Clovermead. “Now you love me! Mercenary beast. You don’t deserve such delicacies.” Still grumbling, Clovermead filled Nubble’s feedbag full to overflowing with the sweet mash. While he ate, she gently curried and brushed his coat until it was clean and glossy.

  A shadow fell across Clovermead. She looked up and saw a short, solid man at the stable door. A dusty black riding cape draped him from his shoulders to his knees. Beneath the cape he wore a brown leather shirt and trousers, both scuffed from long use. Muddy boots adorned with brass spurs swallowed his trousers just below the knee. He carried a short sword buckled to his waist. At his side stood a thin, elegant white stallion whose heaving flanks were flecked with bloody scratches. The man had a ready smile on his face, but it was cold. He had a square and balding head and a carefully trimmed brown goatee and mustache.

  “Hello, missy,” he said. “May I stable my horse here?” He brought in the white stallion without waiting for a reply.

  “Certainly, pilgrim,” said Clovermead with bland courtesy that she thought marvelously disguised her great and sudden annoyance. “Ladyrest’s hospitality extends itself to horses and men alike. It is particularly extended to horses who have to ride to Snowchapel this late in autumn, which is cold and unusual labor for a horse, particularly a skinny one like yours. I can see he’s shivering. You can put him in the stall across from Nubble’s. What breed is he? I’ve never seen the like.”

  “I’m not surprised, girlie. Featherfall’s a racing horse, not one of your backwater drays.” The man took a blanket that lay on a railing between two stalls, heaved it onto Featherfall’s back, and knelt to check his horse’s hooves. “He’s pure Phoenixian—they’re half greyhound and half lightning, and they cough their lungs out if you look at them cross-eyed. The breed’s delicate. They don’t care for cold, either. I didn’t fancy riding Featherfall to this glacial sty, but I needed his speed. There’s no one can beat him at the chase. Hah, he’d run himself to death if I let him. Is that your master or your daddy out back?”

  “My father.” Clovermead was repressing choice remarks with great effort. Waxmelt had given her many lectures about being polite to the guests, even when they weren’t especially polite to her. Grit your teeth, Clovermead advised herself. Remember your duties as a hostess. “He’ll be glad to welcome you, pilgrim. A penny will buy hot lunch for you and hay for your horse.”

  “Cold lunch will do,” said the man. “I’ll pay the same. Tell your daddy I’m in a hurry.” He scooped a penny from his purse and tossed it toward Clovermead. It fell short of her, into the hay. Clovermead had to stoop low to pick it up. When she rose, the man was grinning nastily. “Sorry, girlie.”

  “Of course, sir. No problem at all, pilgrim.” I will spit into your sandwich, pilgrim, thought Clovermead. I will pour sawdust into your soup!

  The man swaggered out of the stall. “Don’t call me pilgrim,” he added sharply as he came to stand by Clovermead. “I don’t worship the sky-crone.” His fingers stroked his neck, and Clovermead saw that he wore a copper necklace, from which hung a long and yellowed bear tooth, stained blood brown at the tip. “I worship Lord Ursus.”

  Clovermead heard growling again. It shivered through the barn and echoed off the mountains. Nubble and Featherfall whinnied with terror. “The bear-priest is coming after you,” Sister Rowan had said to Sorrel. “He brings blood with him.” A claw had reached out from the puddle and struck the nun: “Ursus clawed me.” The anger drained from Clovermead. Now she was afraid. “Who is Lord Ursus?” she had asked. “Blood and killing,” the nun had said.

  “You know my Master’s name, girlie?” The man looked directly at Clovermead for the first time. “I see you do—there’s knowledge and fear in your face. That’s how it should be. I wonder how you learned of Him? I hadn’t thought pilgrims would talk of Him much.” His eyes flicked thoughtfully along Clovermead’s cheeks and forehead and hair. “Strange,” he said. “Your face is familiar. Now, where have I seen it before?” He absentmindedly ran his tongue along his teeth, as if his memory were a beast seeking something to bite, to chew, to swallow. Clovermead’s knees swayed, and she wanted to run very far away, very fast.

  The man shrugged, and the sudden relief left Clovermead limp. “It will come to me. In my line of work you see a great many faces. They blur together. Girlie, take me to your daddy. I’ve fed on jerky and stale cheese since I left High Branding, and I’m hungry for fresh food.”

  His black eyes bored at her, and Clovermead was dizzy and her head felt light. Her legs moved at someone else’s command, and she led the man through the stable door. She heard his boots following behind her, unseen and horribly heavy, scratching in the straw. Ahead of her Waxmelt was sweeping the last of the strewn leaves into a neat pile underneath the beech sapling that grew by the midden. His hair shone like silver in the morning sun.

  Waxmelt looked up at the sound of double footsteps and smiled with habitual ease. “Welcome, pilgrim! I thought I heard a rider on the Road. Will our guest eat, Clo?”

  “Your guest will have the finest cold lunch you can offer, Master Innkeeper,” said the man with scornful joviality. He stepped out of the stable’s shadow. “Bring any fresh roast meats you have—”

  And the man stopped dead in his tracks. Clovermead could move her limbs again. She turned and saw the stranger’s mouth hanging open. “Waxmelt Wickward,” he whispered. “Teeth and bones. Is this where you’ve been hiding?”

  “Lucifer Snuff?” Waxmelt stood still and frozen. “Dear Lady, no.”

  “Lord Ursus, yes!” Snuff yelped with sudden, savage whimsy. His eyes slickly caressed Waxmelt’s countenance. “Lucifer Snuff himself, Waxy. Lucifer Snuff, courier for His Eminence, the Mayor of Low Branding. Lucifer Snuff, who waited a long time in vain for you to deliver him a certain small package. Lucifer Snuff, who’s searched for you these twelve long years. Don’t be so formal to an old friend, Waxy. Call me Snuff. Everybody does.”

  Snuff cocked his head toward Clovermead. Biting mirth bubbled out of him. “Of course I know your face, girlie. You resemble your mother.”

  “You knew her?” Clovermead’s heart thudded and her cheeks flushed red. She could not help asking, “Please, Mr. Snuff, who was she? What was her name?”

  Snuff roared with laughter. The sunlight caught on his teeth. They were huge
and rough, filed sharp and tipped with bronze. He laughed and laughed, and Clovermead found herself hating him with all her heart. Dear Lady, she wanted claws to tear him apart.

  Snuff wiped tears of mirth from his eyes. “What do you call the girl?” he asked Waxmelt.

  “My daughter’s name is Clovermead Wickward,” said Waxmelt. “She knows that her mother is dead. I’ve told her nothing else of the past.”

  “Such modesty, Waxy!” said Snuff. “You didn’t tell her . . .” He turned to Clovermead. His glittering eyes caught her. “Did Daddy tell his little girl that he was a thief?”

  Clovermead’s breath was short. “You’re lying. Daddy would never steal.”

  “Waxy, she doesn’t believe me! Oh, you have taught her well. Tell her the truth, renegade. Tell her that you were a thief—a thief with no honor, a thief who stole from his fellow thieves. Tell her, Waxy. Or I’ll tell her more.”

  “It’s true, Clo,” said Waxmelt. He stared at the ground, his hands trembling so badly that his broom shook. For a second Clovermead almost loathed him. He looked contemptible—the very picture of a liar and a thief. Her father.

  “Very true, Waxy,” Snuff sniggered. “You were a robber extraordinaire! A pilferer beyond compare! I never knew of so magnificent a purloinment. Girlie, it’s really true? You know nothing of your mother? You know nothing of your father? You had no idea he was a thief? You have no idea what was stolen by the enterprising Mr. Wickward?”

  “He’s never told me anything,” said Clovermead sullenly, her hand gripping her wooden sword. She urged her teeth to grow long and thick. She wanted to bite her father, Snuff, anyone at all. Her teeth stayed small and useless. “Will you?”

  Snuff smirked. “No, girlie, I won’t. There’s no reason for you to know anything at all. It might be inconvenient. You won’t say anything too particular to her, Waxy, will you?” he added sharply.

  “I love her, Snuff,” said Waxmelt. “Sweet Lady, I’d rather die than tell her.”

  “Oh, but she wants to know.” Snuff drew his sword smoothly from his belt and jauntily waggled it at Waxmelt. “Your poor little girlie’s aching to know what Daddy did that’s so bad. I hate to keep the young innocent. I’ve changed my mind. Tell her something, Waxy. In general terms.”

  “I’d forgotten how loathsome you are, Snuff.” Waxmelt’s hands clenched tightly on his broom. “Clo, I stole a gem. It was the most precious jewel in Linstock.”

  “Very good, old friend,” said Snuff. “‘Precious’ is just the half of that stone’s worth, Missy Clo. The owner would pay a royal ransom to have that wee rock back again. The plan was carefully laid out. Waxmelt Wickward would steal the jewel and hand it over to us once he had acquired it. Then we would contact the owner and arrange for payment. Ah, but Daddy got ideas of his own. He looked at the facets and took the jewel for himself. That was very selfish of you, Waxy.”

  “It tempted me as I held it in my hands,” said Waxmelt. He smiled faintly. “The gem cried out to me and I knew I couldn’t leave it with you. Old friend.”

  “The thief had a conscience! How remarkable.” Snuff’s nostrils angrily flared. “By His Jaw, Waxy, but you’ve put me to some pains since you disappeared on us. The Mayor had me scour the land for you. I looked for you under every rock in Linstock. His Eminence sent me to Queensmart, too, to every blasted one of the Thirty Towns, and down Loamrest River to Garum. Garum! I didn’t think I’d find you by Lord Ursus’ Great Temple, but His Eminence insisted. I’d given up all hope of finding you. You were very clever. I’d forgotten there was any life this way but those gabbling nuns up at Snowchapel. Worm, robber, traitor, have you spent all twelve years up here in this glacial hole?”

  “Worms know when to go underground,” said Waxmelt. He shifted his grip on his broom and held it like a quarterstaff. “Didn’t I choose my hiding place well, Snuff? I didn’t think you’d look in Timothy Vale. Grizzle-worshipers like you don’t come along Crescent Road.”

  “Waxy, you are disturbingly astute,” Snuff said. He flashed his pointed teeth. “I would rather be skinned alive than pule with women at a moon-shrine. I absolutely refused His Eminence when he told me to go to Snowchapel, but he reassured me that I wouldn’t have to pollute myself with the company of moon-biddies. Just a simple killing, he said—some Tansyard ragamuffin in Chandlefort service, sent off to Snowchapel by Lady Cindertallow to see what the nuns have to say about a new prophecy. You know how Lady Cindertallow is, always aflutter about one prophecy or another. Myself, I don’t care what the fools babble, but His Eminence got it in his brain to get rid of the Tansyard.” Snuff hopped forward abruptly, swung out his sword, and rapped it against Waxmelt’s broom. Waxmelt stumbled backward and Snuff grinned again. “I wondered why Lord Ursus had condemned me to endure this frostbitten mission. Now I see the Bear has blessed me. Waxy, dear Waxy, I need to tell His Eminence where that gem is. You and the girlie are coming with me—”

  The kitchen door banged open and a frying pan hurtled at Snuff. Snuff tried to duck, but the frying pan glanced off the top of his head and left a bloody gash. Snuff reeled backward, and Goody Weft sent a teakettle flying after him through midair.

  “Miscreant wretch!” Clovermead yelled, ablaze with anger. “Ignoble paynim varlet!” She drew her sword, giddily delighted to find a release for her fury at last, and sprang toward Snuff as he woozily sidestepped the kettle. She roared and rapped him on the left knee as hard as she could. Snuff howled with pain, and Clovermead sliced upward against his sword hand. His short sword went flying and came to rest between two thick cedar logs in the firewood yard. Then Waxmelt was by Clovermead’s side, pounding Snuff’s chest and face with his broom. The broom end caught Snuff’s copper necklace and snapped it. The bear tooth spun to the ground, and Snuff fell back against the stable wall.

  “Take this, Mr. Wickward,” said Goody Weft. Waxmelt dropped his broom and took a metal poker from her. Goody transferred her carving knife from her left hand to her right. “I’ll skewer the blaspheming wretch,” she vowed loudly. Her cheeks were purple with indignation. “How dare he talk that way about Our Lady’s nuns? I’ve never seen such a villain in my life! Hanging’s too good for him.” She advanced menacingly on Snuff.

  “The opinion is mutual,” said Snuff. He put one hand to his bleeding forehead and with the other took a dagger from his vest. Goody stepped back hastily.

  Snuff licked the blood on his hand and savored the taste. Then he bared his glittering teeth and laughed again, harsh and loud. “Waxy, what are the odds when a wounded man faces a woman, a weakling, and a child?”

  “A child who knows how to fight,” said Clovermead. “That Tansyard ragamuffin taught me, Mr. Snuff. Didn’t he teach me well?”

  “Well enough. I must remember to kill him slowly.” Snuff grimaced. “Waxy?”

  “Even odds,” said Waxmelt. “If you want to ride back south, I won’t get in your way.”

  “An interesting proposal,” said Snuff. He shifted some weight onto his left knee and winced with pain. “The child is vicious.”

  “The child doesn’t think much of your manners, Mr. Snuff,” said Clovermead. “The child doesn’t like being referred to in the third person when the child is present. The child thinks that you should be drawn and quartered and burned and espaliered and hung upside down in a waterfall and fed to the wolves, and then you should be killed until you’re dead. I’d like to rip your guts out.” She glared at Snuff in what she hoped was a sufficiently fierce manner.

  “What an inventive little girl you are. I will have to punish you someday for your insolence.” Snuff gnashed his teeth at Clovermead, and a thousand bears roared in her ears. She jumped away from him as gooseflesh ran up and down her arms. Clovermead looked around her—she saw nothing. Waxmelt and Goody Weft still had their eyes fixed on Snuff. They had heard nothing.

  Snuff smiled derisively. “Little coward. Waxy, I think I must forego your excellent cold lunch. I accept the truce you offer. I swear by Lord Ursus�
�� Pelt that if none of you harm me now, or interfere with me in any way, I will ride straight back to Low Branding and do you no injury along the way.”

  “You’ll take no vengeance against Goody Weft?” asked Waxmelt. “Or against any Valefolk?”

  “As you wish,” said Snuff. “They are safe from me forever, by Lord Ursus’ Pelt.”

  “Then, if you keep your oaths, I swear for all three of us by Lady Moon not to harm you or interfere with you in any way before you reach Low Branding.” Waxmelt let his poker rest on the ground but kept a wary grip on it. “Go on, Snuff.”

  “Certainly, Waxy. But I’ll be back with friends as quick as I can, never fear.” Snuff put his dagger back in his vest. He jauntily saluted Waxmelt, blew a kiss to Goody Weft, and bowed low to Clovermead. “Farewell one, farewell all. His Eminence will have his jewel soon enough.”

  “I hid before,” said Waxmelt. “I can hide again.”

  Snuff put one hand on the stable wall and hobbled along it, hissing each time he stepped on his bruised leg. “I will enjoy the hunt,” he called over his shoulder as he limped into the stable.

  Clovermead saw Snuff’s bear tooth lying nearby on the pile of fallen leaves next to the beech sapling. It gleamed pale white in the sun. “A trophy of our victory,” Clovermead said softly. She walked to the fang, stooped, and picked it up. A metal ring pierced through its center, through which the copper necklace had been strung. It was the work of a moment to string the tooth and ring on the same leather cord as her brooch. “Mine by right of conquest,” Clovermead told herself. Nobody else had seen her pick up the tooth.