In the Shadow of the Bear

by David Randall

  “And sometimes I want to hurt you,” Clovermead said in a low voice. She looked straight at Sorrel, and this time she didn’t push her anger out of sight. “I waited for you for three years. I know you had to stay out on the Steppes, and I had to stay in Linstock, but that doesn’t make me feel any better. You left me alone. I was able to stand being apart from you for three years, but you promised you’d come this spring, and I thought you’d show up the first day the snows melted. You didn’t. I expected you every day, and you still didn’t come. When Lacebark showed up, I was so tempted to kiss him, but I didn’t. For your sake. But you still didn’t show up, and I couldn’t get him out of my head, and when you finally did show up, I realized, yes, I’m angry at you.” Clovermead wiped a tear from her cheek. “I want to just be in love with you, because I’ve never been happier than when I was. And you’ve been sweet, and kind, and very lovable, but I’m still angry.” She laughed unhappily. “And you’ll think I’m not being particularly lovable myself, and you’ll ask yourself, ‘Why do I bother with this crazy girl? She wants to kiss someone else, and she’s the one who gets angry at me. I’ll just go back to the Steppes and find some nice Tansyard lady who has all her teeth and isn’t scarred and doesn’t drag me into the wilderness and then blow up at me.’”

  Now Sorrel smiled a little. “You have always had a way with words, Clovermead. If I listened to you long enough when you were in this mood, you might persuade me to leave you.”

  “You’d be better off,” said Clovermead.

  Sorrel put his hands to his ears. “La, la, la!” he said very loudly. “I will not listen to Clovermead while she says such things!” He looked closely at Clovermead. “Your mouth is still open.” Clovermead shut it, and he put his hands down. “I thought I had convinced you long since that I did not care about your missing tooth or your scar.”

  “I guess it’s not the sort of thing I can stay convinced about.” Clovermead smiled a little too. “I did like it when you said I was lovely, just after we fought the bear-priests. That sort of thing goes a long way.”

  “You are most lovely,” said Sorrel gently. “I will never change my opinion on that matter.” He paused. “If you were only tempted to kiss this thief, and did not actually, I suppose there is not much cause to be jealous. I am, though. And hurt, too. Perhaps I have no cause to be hurt after three years apart—perhaps it brands me a fool—but still I am.” He paused again. “There are attractive women in the Hordes. Some also have pleasant personalities. I . . . have not been unaware of their charms. I sometimes have very much wanted to kiss one. And have lain awake in my tent, angry at you, and wishing I could remember your face properly.” He sighed. “In those empty hours I would sometimes memorize those jokes I told you. They kept my mind busy, when otherwise it would have been occupied in idle resentments.”

  “Now I’m jealous,” said Clovermead. “Who did you think about kissing?”

  “No one important.” Sorrel gazed steadily at Clovermead. “No one worth risking you for.” He stood up, walked around the fire, and held out his hand. “I will not say you do not have cause to be angry at me, Clovermead. I am sorry I hurt you. All I ask is that you do not stay angry.”

  “It wouldn’t make much sense.” Clovermead stared at Sorrel’s hand. Three years apart, she thought, and for a moment her anger was as strong as ever.

  In her mind’s eye Clovermead saw the Abbess turn away from Saraband and say, I cannot forgive you.

  That’s where it ends when you harbor resentments, thought Clovermead. Don’t be a fool.

  Clovermead extended her arm. Sorrel pulled her up, and now they stood facing each other. Clovermead had started crying again. Sorrel reached out with his finger, and wiped the tears from her cheek. “I wish you hadn’t been away so long,” said Clovermead. “I’ve missed you so much.”

  “And I you,” said Sorrel. His fingers interlaced with hers. “So very much.”

  They kissed each other, very hesitantly.

  Clovermead giggled. “You were a better kisser three years ago.”

  “I had just spent the entire summer kissing you. Now I am rusty.” His eyes sparkled. “I would be glad to relearn my decayed skills.”

  “I’ll just bet you would!” said Clovermead. She put her arms around Sorrel, and they kissed again.

  “Are we still angry at each other?” asked Sorrel when they came up for breath.

  “Some. But it doesn’t matter so much.” And Clovermead pulled him to her for another kiss.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Birth

  That night Clovermead dreamed that she ran through the forests of the Reliquaries—

  She was a golden bear, huge and strong. Around her, spring had come to the mountain slopes: Exuberant young bushes sprang forth green buds underneath the spruce trees’ evergreen needles, badgers emerged from their burrows, and overhead the migrating swans flew northward. The rich loam smelled heavenly in her nostrils. Only a few patches of snow remained in shadowy corners and on the north sides of trees. It was late in the afternoon.

  Boulderbash ran by her side. She was half again as large as Clovermead, and she stretched her legs with joy as she ran. “I was young here!” she exulted. “No gray in my fur then. No lines in my face, and all the energy in the world. Oh, it’s a lovely dream, Lady. Thank you for giving it to me.” She glanced sideward at Clovermead. “Even if I have to share it with you. Make me no offers, changeling. I want nothing from your hands.”

  “You’ve made that clear enough,” said Clovermead. She shrugged. “As you wish. Tell me, where is this place?”

  “The mountains near Snowchapel. I spent my youth here.” They came to a ridge, and Boulderbash stopped on a boulder. In the valley below lay Snowchapel. The temple’s white marble walls gleamed in the spring sunlight. In its middle lay the perfect blue circle of the Scrying Pool. Outside the temple walls a field of lavender crocuses swayed in a gentle breeze.

  “I met Ursus’ father on this rock,” Boulderbash said. “Nightwander. Lovely, lovely Nightwander. He was a beautiful black bear, sable from head to foot, save for a star of white fur on his forehead. He followed me through these woods to my cave, and he roared praises of my beauty to the heavens. I could not resist him. His musk was so strong, his muscles so sleek. The moonlight shone like diamonds on his fur.” The ancient white bear sighed. “When we had been together six months, he stole away in darkness while I slept. I expected no better of him, but half my heart left with him.”

  “You never saw him again?” asked Clovermead.

  “Never,” said Boulderbash sadly. “I looked, I sniffed, but Nightwander’s trail went cold. He must be long dead by now. And since he was gone, I gave the rest of my heart to my little Ursus when he was born. And then . . . he became what he is.” Boulderbash shook her head. “I still see Nightwander’s beauty in him. It’s there, underneath the blood. Especially the eyes. Ah, he has his father’s eyes. Had. I miss them so much.”

  “Empty holes,” Clovermead whispered, and Boulderbash nodded. Clovermead peered down the slope, and she saw a waddling shape. “Boulderbash, I think that’s you.”

  The white bear peered down and chuckled with surprise. “So it is! Dear Lady, I’d forgotten how big Ursus was in my womb! I could barely walk toward the end.” She yipped with joy. “Come with me, changeling. See how my little Ursus was born.”

  Boulderbash bounded down the mountainside, and Clovermead tumbled after her. They ran on soft spring grasses as the sun dipped behind the mountain peaks to the west. In early twilight they came up to the slowly moving Boulderbash-that-was. Her fur was pure white, vibrant with youth, and she had a spring to her step that Old Boulderbash had lost. Young Boulderbash didn’t notice either of them. Her belly was huge, and her white stomach fur brushed the top of the green grass. She grunted with the effort of moving, but she kept going at a steady pace to the temple. She took an occasional nibble from the meadow as she walked.

  “Such a wonderful time,” sighe
d Old Boulderbash as she looked at her younger self. “There never was a better for me.”

  Clovermead looked dubiously at the pregnant bear. “I must say you look rather uncomfortable. Like you’ve been carrying a lead weight in your belly a few months too many, and are hoping it won’t stay in you that much longer. Are you sure you aren’t prettying things up a bit in memory?”

  Old Boulderbash laughed. “Perhaps a little. You’re right. My little Ursus dragged me down. Most bear cubs are tiny when they’re born, but not him. He was enormous! But that hardly mattered. All winter long I dreamed, and I felt little Ursus growing in me. He dreamed with me. He had no words, but I could tell what he was like. What he would be when he grew up. He was . . . everything good there was in Nightwander and me. All the dross left out.” She laughed with sudden bitterness. “But that was just an idle dream, wasn’t it? No true vision. What is he now but dross? And all the good left out.” She looked at her younger self, and tears started in her eyes. “All that labor for nothing.”

  Clovermead wanted to comfort Old Boulderbash, but she couldn’t. Wordless, she watched the white bear cry.

  Old Boulderbash blinked away her tears. “That hasn’t happened yet,” she said fiercely. “He’s my little Ursus still. All gold, all mine.” Young Boulderbash had come to the temple in the deepening dusk, and Old Boulderbash and Clovermead followed her as she crept between the open pillars and through to the Scrying Pool. She lay down by the side of the blue water, on white marble, and she rested for a while. Once or twice she took a drink from the Pool’s clear waters.

  Young Boulderbash howled in sudden pain. Her belly shuddered, and Ursus inside thumped at her. The moaning bear searched for a more comfortable position.

  “I shouldn’t watch this,” growled Clovermead uncomfortably. “You didn’t know anyone would be looking.”

  “I knew Our Lady watched,” Old Boulderbash said calmly. “And now Our Lady sends you to watch with me. There is no impropriety.” She glanced at Clovermead, and she snorted. “Haven’t you ever seen such things, changeling?”

  “I’ve seen sheep and cats give birth,” said Clovermead. “But never a bear. Never a woman. Back in Timothy Vale, Goody Weft acted as midwife sometimes. She told me what happens, sort of, and she would have brought me along to see how it was done after I turned fourteen, but I left for Chandlefort when I was twelve. And at Chandlefort, court ladies prefer privacy when they’re giving birth. I—it gives me the willies, to tell the truth.”

  “Then better you watch now,” said Old Boulderbash. “You ought to have some idea of how it’s done.” She glared at Clovermead. “Watch,” she commanded. “Someone else will see my Ursus born. Someone else will know how sweet it was.”

  Clovermead whimpered, sat down on the white marble, and obeyed.

  Giving birth didn’t look quite as painful as Clovermead had imagined, but it came close. Ursus was very large, the way out was very small, and Young Boulderbash roared her pain.

  “You bled,” Clovermead whispered.

  “More than in any battle,” said Old Boulderbash. Unwavering, she watched herself give birth.

  “You had no doctor. You had no midwife.” Clovermead shuddered. “You were all alone.”

  “Our Lady comforted me,” said Old Boulderbash. She smiled. “Look at my eyes. There’s pain there, but no fear.”

  Clovermead looked, and it was true. Young Boulderbash’s eyes were filled with tears, but her gaze was serene.

  “Oh, Lady!” Clovermead cried out, horrified. “You’re being split in two.”

  And Young Boulderbash screamed so loudly that the marble walls shivered. Her claws sank into the marble floor and carved great runnels in the stone. When her scream ended, a black cub with damp fur lay on the marble floor. His caul covered his forehead and his snout. The cord that connected Ursus to Boulderbash lay knotted on the marble. The tangle blocked Boulderbash’s life-giving blood, and the newborn began to choke as he lay on the floor. Young Boulderbash was exhausted, but she pulled herself over to him and quickly pulled the caul from his head with her claws. A gush of liquid leaked from his face, and he breathed deeply and wailed. Young Boulderbash laid the caul down, bit in two the cord that connected her to her son, and then sprawled back to rest on the marble floor.

  “He was born drowning,” said Clovermead, in numb horror. She stared at the infant cub. His eyes were wide with terror. Poor thing.

  “I gave him life twice,” said Old Boulderbash dreamily. “Brought him into the world, and kept him from dying that first minute.” She smiled as she watched her younger self begin to lick dry the black fur of her son. “It was worth all the pain,” she crooned. “Oh, Ursus, my sweet cub, you were so lovely. The sight of you made it all worthwhile. It still does, little one. Still my little one, no matter how you’ve grown. Still lovely, no matter what you’ve done.” She wept as she looked at the spot of black fur wrapped in his mother’s embrace. He began to suckle. “My darling, my darling, you’ll always be my darling.”

  There was a sound to one side, and Young Boulderbash’s shoulders tensed. Then she relaxed as the Abbess of Snowchapel walked slowly into the temple. Gray hair flew out of the edge of her wimple, but she was still in vigorous middle age. “By the crescent, what an enormous bear you are!” said the Abbess. “Was that you making that racket?” Her eyes widened as she saw the cub surrounded by his mother’s fur. “Gracious Lady! Why would you want to give birth here? The stone floor must be terribly cold.” She knelt down by the Scrying Pool, not too near the cub, and she smiled at him. “He’s a handsome little fellow, isn’t he? And not so little, come to think of it. If he’s this big when he’s born, he’ll be larger than you when he’s grown! What’s he called?”

  “Ursus,” Young Boulderbash growled happily.

  “I’ll bet that’s an answer. Pity I don’t speak bear.” A stray beam of moonlight glinted in the temple, and the Abbess listened to a soft wind. “The name Ursus pops up in my head. I’ll take that as a message from Our Lady. Well, little Ursus, that’s a good name. Welcome to the world, young fellow.” She nodded to him gravely.

  “Take this,” said Young Boulderbash. She pushed the caul to the Abbess. “Keep it.”

  The Abbess looked startled. “What on earth do you want me to do with this?”

  Young Boulderbash smiled. “You humans are clever, with your fingers and your boxes. Please, keep it for my little Ursus. When he’s grown, I want to show him what I saved him from. Lady knows I shouldn’t be so proud of what I’ve done—but I am.”

  “I’d swear you want me to make a keepsake of the caul,” said the Abbess. She glanced at the Scrying Pool. “Maybe Our Lady will make it clear.” She looked into the blue waters—and froze. Dark shapes fluttered in the depths, and the Abbess made the crescent sign. “Sorrow,” she muttered. “A time of blood and pain. Oh, and so much death. No way to avoid it. But a way to survive it.” She tore her eyes from the Pool, and she was weeping. “I don’t welcome that vision, Lady.” She brushed the tears from her eyes, and stared in fascination at the caul. “And that caul to save us all in the end, if anything can. That much was clear.” She turned back to Young Boulderbash, and took the caul into her hands. “I’ll take good care of it,” she said softly. “I swear it by Our Lady.”

  “Thank you,” said Young Boulderbash. She turned back to her black cub. He watched his mother with glowing black eyes. “Do you hear that, little Ursus?” she asked softly. “The nuns will keep your caul safe for you.” Ursus coughed up a bubble of milk, and he mewled with sudden terror. Young Boulderbash nuzzled his fur with her snout. “Never fear, little one. I’ll keep you safe. And when you’re grown, your last little piece will be waiting for you with these kind nuns.”

  The infant Ursus turned to look at the Abbess. He reached out a feeble paw toward her, and batted at the air with tiny claws.

  The Abbess shivered, and stood up abruptly. “I’ll get you some food,” she said brusquely to Young Boulderbash. “And fresh
straw for you to lie on.” She looked sidelong at Ursus again—but now he was yawning, with his paws curled into his stomach. She shook her head, and smiled. “Just a cub. I’ll have the nuns come take a look at you. We don’t have many births here in Snowchapel, man or bear, and they’ll be glad to make a fuss over you.” She hurried from the temple.

  “My pretty little one,” cooed Young Boulderbash. She snuggled up more tightly to Ursus. “How lovely you are.”

  Old Boulderbash swung to Clovermead. “Do you understand why I love him so, changeling?” she demanded. “Do you see?”

  “I see,” said Clovermead. Tears filled her eyes. “I do understand, Boulderbash. With all my heart.”

  Born drowning, Clovermead thought. She could feel the water press down on her. Oh, Lady.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Duel

  Lacebark raised an eyebrow the next morning at breakfast. “I see you two are holding hands. Does that mean you’ve sorted everything out?” His eyes danced as he took a sip of water from his flask.

  Sorrel scowled. “This is not your business, thief.” His hand tightened on Clovermead’s.

  “Calm down, Sorrel,” said Clovermead. “You’re going about this all wrong. There’s a calm, gentle, and mannerly thing to say at all times. I learned that from Saraband.” She stood up, gave Sorrel’s hand a squeeze, and walked over to Lacebark. “Oh, Mr. Eddish,” she cooed.

  “Yes, Demoiselle?” Lacebark tore off a hunk of bread and gulped it down.

  “You’re annoying me.” Her jaws jutted forward, and bear-teeth snapped the loaf from the thief’s fingers.

  “Oh, dear,” said Sorrel. He ambled over to join Clovermead. “The thief seems to have fainted. I think you may have overdone your manners. Does he still have all his fingers?”

  “Of course! Saraband would be quite upset at me if I started removing bits of him.” Clovermead slipped her hand back into Sorrel’s. “I don’t think he likes bears.”