by Steve Berman
And that was the truth of it, for the Red Bear of Norroway was widely known to be a soul ensorcelled. None in the Southlands knew how the doom had come about, but this fabled prince of the North was perforce a mighty and terrible bear by day, and only a man by night. Many said that he was a dark burden on his own people, though for certain no reiver or rival lord would threaten those lands, fearing the beast’s strength and temper.
“So. A challenge indeed. You will need to be brave, which I know you are,” said Erys at last. “And yet you must also be sharp of wit, to win such a prize—if it is even possible. Know that my counsel will always be yours, and with faith, perhaps you might yet catch your bear.”
“And my counsel also, such as it is” said Andrys.
Seeing no dispute between her sons, the queen clapped her hands once in agreement. She knew that dreams had power, and besides, she was wise enough to see that forbidding Justinian this pursuit would leave him a wounded and haunted bear himself. Better that he attempted what he had set himself, for good or ill, and made his own wyrd.
“The heart must be its own master, my dear. If Norroway is where it bids you, then you have my blessing. Let your dreams be your guide, and see what comes.”
JUSTINIAN LAY DOWN CLOTHED THAT night, too excited to undress. He swathed himself in goose-feather quilts, and let the dark enfold him. At first, he dreamed of spiced wine and pomegranates; of roast fowl and various glistening sauces, but at last these faded, along with the grumbling of his stomach. He turned under the quilts, asleep but restless, until at last his fancy brought him once more to the magnificent—if chilly—mead-hall.
There, on a fine and intricate wooden throne, sat a figure with long copper-red hair and a beard of the like, his clothes of leather and linen in the manner of the Northmen. In truth, the man was less substantial than those who normally caught Justinian’s eye, but there was a noble melancholy about that downcast face which fascinated him. Of this prince’s age, it might have been that he was a half-dozen years older than the Southlander.
It had been Justinian’s intent to learn more through such dreams, and plan his journey north, but such was not be, for to his astonishment, this night he could feel the rush-strewn floor beneath his feet, and smell the low peat fire. He had been transported, body and soul, to cold Norroway!
The figure looked up, startled, and one hand strayed to an ornate sword hilt.
“You!”
Justinian blinked, trying to gather his wits. “You know me, sir?”
“I have dreamed your form, your face, these last weeks, and knew not why. That you should stand before me, however, is a mystery. I am Leif Thurlasson, the prince of these parts, and do not recall bidding you to my hall; should such a meeting in the flesh be for well or woe, I will soon learn.”
The young man bowed. “O prince, Your Highness, I have travelled pale nightmare and sweet night-fantasy, and there I have seen you there also, each night for a moon. I know not how I am here, nor did I mean to stand before you without permission.”
Not for the first time, he wished that he had his brother Andrys’ gift with words.
“I am called Justinian, and what you are named in these sad days I have from the talk of learned and well-travelled men, for I deem you to be the Red Bear of Norroway.”
The prince growled. “I have that misfortune, though once I was free of care, and known as Leif of the Broad Spear. Now am I wary of strangers who come to my door, and if you know of me, then you must also know that none will risk my temper by day, or my sorrow by night.”
“None in Norroway perhaps,” said Justinian, setting his shoulders square with resolve. “But the men of the Southlands are bold.”
“Is that so?” Leif Thurlasson looked the young man over, and must have found no outward fault, for he nodded. “Ah well, I should remember my duties as a host, I suppose.” He gestured to a simple but solid-looking stool by the throne. “Will you take mead with me? No—wine, I should have said, should I not, if you are from the Southlands? I believe we have some, though it may be vinegar by now.”
He clapped his hands, and a youth in russet linen came from the shadows. At his master’s instruction, he brought horn goblets and a dusty bottle which swilled with a liquid dark as blood.
“I would drink the sourest vinegar if it were from your cups, my prince,” murmured Justinian, sitting where he had been bid. He would not have drawn himself back into his bedchamber, even if he could, for his heart pounded to be so close to this man.
“Tell me then of these dreams, and spare no detail,” demanded Leif Thurlasson.
Other servitors came within the quarter hour, and with them came smoking meats, and thick rye bread, and strange cheeses, accompanied by more bottles from the prince’s cellars—deep tawny draughts that drove away the cold. The two men talked long into the night, and if there was caution on one side, and over-eagerness on the other, they found no answer to this strange transportation.
Thus were met Justinian and the Red Bear of Norroway.
2
NEITHER WELCOME NOR UNWELCOME, JUSTINIAN was given leave to remain in the holding, save that he should make no mischief. Assenting gladly, the young man made it his task to learn more of the place, and he who ruled it. Striding from the spread nets of the fisher-folk by the shore to the huts of the trappers in mountain’s shadow, he soon learned the way of things—for all that the prince’s people were stalwart and healthy, this was a troubled realm.
People were generous in most matters, but guarded and soon busy about other matters should the Red Bear itself be mentioned. The tales had spoken truly of the prince’s doom—from dawn until dusk the beast known as the Red Bear left the mead-hall and roamed the forests thereabouts, and all were aware that this was Leif, once of the Broad Spear, his shape and mind transformed into a thing from whom his people shrank.
It was a wonder, this creature, standing greater than any bear should be, with dark eyes deep-set above a fanged and fearsome snout and claws which might rend a longboat. The beast was ill-tempered but not intent on harm, as long as it was left alone.
Villages were forewarned whenever their prince was abroad by day, and heavy wooden shutters served to dull his interest in the folk within.
At first Justinian merely watched and waited as the beast ripped salmon from the streams, or drove that bulk through the most tangled briars. It did in truth seem to be no more that a creature of the forest.
As for the nights, Leif Thurlasson had long dismissed those shield-men who would have shared his high table, telling them they were better breaking bread with their families, and so the two men would drink and talk alone. Sometimes they spoke of their respective lands, at other times of idle matters in which neither had real interest, and Justinian’s voice was the most oft heard. The prince had always regret for the lost day, and as he sank into his cups, melancholy gripped him.
Only when pressed on the Red Bear did Leif show passion, turning a hurtful glare on his guest. He would say little of the curse upon him, save that it was unwillingly gained—and undeserved. When pressed as to why nothing had been done about this burden, Leif only muttered that soothsayers and wise ones had been consulted many times, but none had been able to lift or even soften the curse.
“You have had a worthless dream, and a wasted journey,” the prince would say, and the young man could not persuade him otherwise.
As the days passed, Justinian grew more, not less, determined to win over the prince. He had the courage and foolishness of youth, believing that he alone could change this dire wyrd—and why else would that miraculous transportation have brought him to Norroway? There were fair-faced men aplenty in his mother’s lands if the pleasures of the bedchamber were all he sought. His heart still beat with that love he had heard of in the tales of old, and was he not fit to grasp such a rare prize?
Seeing that his words had thus far held little power for Leif the man, Justinian decided to cleave to the beast more closely, following it in
its wanderings. For it came to him that he might seek to befriend the prince in this form, and thus work his way into that tortured breast.
The first time he came close earned him a deep growl, and he let it be; the second time it rose to its full height and stared with hot red eyes until the young man again backed away.
His third attempt was the greatest folly, for he came across it while it was clawing honey from a rotten tree, and reminded of the mead which the prince loved, Justinian thought to go closer and to speak softly.
“This sweetness we might share, and remember the feast-table where we talk without anger. For, my dear Leif, I know that you are beneath that doom-forged form.”
The bear twisted round, its gaze on the daring young man.
The wild cuff that came drove Justinian to the ground, and there was blood in plenty mixed with the honey upon those claws. The young man’s last sight before he swooned was of the Red Bear blundering away, bellowing….
Charcoal burners from the settlement found Justinian some hours later, sprawled beneath the pines, and fortunate that they did. His tunic was ripped asunder, his shoulder bruised and bleeding heavily from deep and open gouges; making a hasty litter, they carried him back to his chamber the mead-hall, even as the first grey fringe of evening touched the woods.
There he lay in a daze, lamenting his failure more than his wounds, as his torn shoulder was washed and bound. But when the servitors had left him, he saw a pale-faced figure in the shadow of the doorway.
“Oh, my Southlands friend,” cried Leif. “You must leave this place, leave me, before worse befalls. You are bold, yes, and brave, but whatever these dreams meant, staying near me will be the end of you.”
Justinian propped himself up on his good arm.
“Better I perish by the claws of day,” he gasped, “than abandon my prince of the night.”
Then the Red Bear of Norroway wept, and kneeling by the bedside, poured drink for both of them. He cradled the young man’s head with one arm, and let dark wine trickle between Justinian’s lips.
“Do not ask for more favour than I dare give. I cannot … I cannot love, I am fated to remain thus, a curmudgeon of a beast whilst the sun is high; a lost soul under the moon’s gaze.”
Justinian’s heart gave him the strength to smile, despite the pain.
“Than you dare give? Then you might not spurn me, were this curse lifted?”
Leif Thurlasson hesitated, and his lips quivered as if they might remember pleasure.
“You must rest,” he said, turning his face away.
WHATEVER HE MIGHT LACK IN cunning or oratory, Justinian steered true to his course. This saw him up from his sickbed before he was fully healed, and by that Freya’s Day (as they counted the days there) he was yet again wandering among the pines, trailing the Red Bear. On such things, the opinion of the holding was now divided—some folk admired the young man’s honest determination and affection for their prince; others saw another sorry chapter in the making, and wondered how many men it would take to build a pyre for such a bulky fellow.
Thus it went for two weeks and more, with Leif’s people sworn not to mention Justinian’s activities to their lord. Each morn the young man gave the beast his scent and made it more accustomed to—though not perhaps pleased by—his presence. If it did not welcome him, it no longer struck out in anger, and confined itself to sullen grumbling.
And when dusk fell, he would engage Leif the man in talk again, stealing fine phrases as he remembered from his brother Andrys, telling of Erys’ deeds in care of their mother’s realm. Of their mother he spoke, and of their late father.
In turn, Leif Thurlasson softened somewhat, speaking of his boyhood, and how his parents had been lost a-viking, leaving him with this princedom. At times a rare smile was shared, and one evening, when the young man had been in Norroway for a moon and more, a darker tale was admitted to the mead-hall. Leif finally consented to speak of the sly one who had placed the curse, a traveller from far away who had come to the Northlands late one winter.
“Ovelamieli was the name he gave, and I was merely Leif, new to ruling others. He spoke with sense at first, as a wise-man might, but there seemed other layers to his words; I felt his fair face might be more a mask. Ever more uneasy, I began to suspect him to be a warlock. The longer he stayed, the more he sought my affection and the more I said to him, ‘Nay’ ....” The prince’s voice faltered. “When I spurned him openly before others, he uncovered his true sails—I would be his or no one’s, he hissed. That night, in my own hall, he laid the curse of the Red Bear upon me.”
“An evil, evil deed—and clearly a man to match it, this Ovelamieli.”
Leif sighed. “Do you wonder that I was cautious when another stranger came to my door?”
Justinian spread his hand across the other man’s, and it was not brushed away.
“With the first cock’s crow of each day,” continued Leif, “I must take up the bear’s pelt which Ovelamieli had first gifted me, and I cannot stop myself. I can do it no harm; my faithful servitors have tried to drag it far away, but when they do I fall near to dying, and the pelt is always back by midnight. If it is locked in the strongest iron-bound chest, still it finds its way out and near to me once more. Such is the warlock’s power and the strength of the geas he has placed.”
“This seems too cruel. Can nothing be done?”
“I have told you—neither seer nor cunning-man has ever brought an answer to that. I must be what I have been made. I wonder that you can stand it, dear to me though you are becoming. My sunlight hours are a blur, but I know I came close to brute anger again today.”
“But you did not do it. I must be with man and beast—I can do no less!”
“Oh, you sweet fool,” murmured Leif, and their fingers intertwined ….
NOT THREE DAYS AFTER THAT, with Justinian’s wounds much mended and too many glances between them to ignore, they found their way to the bedchamber for the first time, and there they gloried in each other’s bodies. Nor was Justinian disappointed; Leif Thurlasson had tenderness, but, at times, he also possessed the earthy passions of the beast whose name he bore—and he wielded a ‘broad spear’ indeed.
This change was a joy to the young man, but always in the far corner of the bedchamber lay the huge russet pelt that the prince must don when morning came, the pelt which would transform him into a creature of instinct and base urges.
One night after pleasure they lay abed, and drew in the scents of fresh, clean sweat and cedarwood which filled the chamber. Leif ran his hand down Justinian’s body, exploring the dense curls upon that massive breast.
“You have something hid behind that fair brow. I sense it.”
Justinian hesitated, his fingers tangled in the other’s hair. “It is nothing. I was thinking idly, and realised that … I miss my family, so far away. I have not spoken to my mother, my brothers, for such a long time, and the seas are so wide ....”
“Oh.” The prince sat up. “I did not dare say before, but I am minded there is a way—dreams have bound us, and dreams are surely to our hand in this. Only lie in bed at night and think hard on your family just before you sleep. Imagine yourself stood with them, and so you will be.”
“But then I will be apart from you, and—”
“Do the same in your bed at home, and imagine your troubled prince in that same manner. If you want to be with me, you will return.”
The next night, Justinian went to an empty chamber and lay down on musty furs, his family in his mind. Within moments of closing his eyes, he felt a shudder run through his body, and found himself wrapped once more in goose-feather quilts. It was morning, and he was in his mother’s keep.
Rushing into the great hall, he saw his brother Andrys and the queen breaking their fast at the long oak table. Such was his excitement that he gabbled as he grabbed at platters of food.
“Rye bread is … very heavy,” he said, tearing into a sweet white loaf. “And they don’t have the fruit
we… oh, he really does become an actual bear. And he wants me, but …” He swallowed a mouthful, took a deep breath. “Where’s Erys? Is he well?”
“Erys is riding the eastern borders,” said the queen. “We are hoping to open up some new mines—your brother believes there is silver there.”
“Oh. Did you miss me? What did you think had—”
“We guessed where you had gone.” Andrys stood up and hugged him. “Idiot. You could have left a note.”
Justinian sat down, restrained himself from filling his mouth again, and told them the whole of it, from the evening of the dream which took him to the Red Bear of Norroway. They marvelled at his tale, being cheered that he had found someone for whom he cared, and sad at the curse laid upon Leif Thurlasson.
“How long will you stay here?” asked the queen. “So many will be pleased to see you again, and Erys will return before the new moon.”
Justinian shook his head, his appetite lost. “I do not know, mother. I love Leif Thurlasson, and I must seek out if any in our realm know of a way to relieve my prince’s curse.”
And after a morning with his kin, this he did. He saddled up his faithful grey, a solid stallion who bore Justinian’s bulk with ease, and rode to many a town and village, up into the hills, and down to the slanted houses of the fisher-folk. He talked to the witch-men of the hills, who burned rat’s entrails to read the smoke, and to the star-women of the great towns, who read the night sky. He spoke to the seer of his sister-in-law, Aisha, an old man who had travelled more roads than might be found on the Earth. But none had answers—there had been no skin-changer, by choice or doom, in the land for centuries, and Aisha’s seer said that the Northern warlocks had bitter ways which were closed to even him.
Dejected, Justinian let the grey stallion bring him back to his mother’s keep, for his brother Erys would soon return. In Enrys’s chambers of state, he found a thin fellow of some thirty winters, who was going through bundles of manuscripts.
