The Princess and the Bear

by Mette Ivie Harrison

  Frant spat. “They are humans.”

  “And does that mean that they are above the animals?” asked Sharla.

  “Yes!” said Frant fiercely.

  The bear thought of the hound. He did not think himself above her, and yet there was a barrier between them, despite all they shared.

  Sharla turned to her oldest daughter and said, “Tell the story of the boy who was raised by wolves.”

  The girl told the story easily, as if she had heard it many times before.

  “Once there was a boy whose mother was killed by wolves. But the babe she carried on her back they took back to their den with them. Perhaps they meant to eat him at first, for he made such a terrible noise.

  “But when the lead bitch saw the tiny boy, she offered him her nipple to suckle on, for she had only the day before lost her own son. And while this boy was hairless and moved like a worm, still he was better than nothing. He was warm to snug up against and he eased the ache of her full breasts. And his face was expressive, for when he cried he was as sad as any creature she had ever seen, but when he suckled from her he was perfectly still and content. And when she played with him, he laughed as loud as the birds in the sky.

  “She became quite fond of him, though his teeth were weak and he could not run on all four limbs like the other wolves. In time she began to think of him as her own son. She forgot that he had been brought to her as an infant, the dead child of a woman they had killed and devoured. She thought of him as a wolf, smart but weak.”

  The girl telling the story looked at her brother for a long moment, then hurried on.

  “But the day came that hunters came through the forest, and the boy was discovered with the wolves. The hunters killed two of his packmates, then brought the boy down with them and carried him back to the human dens beyond the forest. The bitch wolf who had been the boy’s mother said farewell to him in her heart and did not think to see him again.

  “Until the boy returned. This time he was clothed as a human, and he strode on two feet as he had first learned, before the wolves had taught him better. He smelled as a human smelled, yet he spoke in the language of the wolves.

  “The bitch wolf ran from him, but he ran faster and farther. When he caught her, she trembled in his arms.

  “‘Mother,’ he called her.

  “And he brought her home to his new human den, to honor her.”

  The bear shuddered.

  “Of course, the mother wolf was uncomfortable there,” said the girl. “She could not bear the smell of the smoke or the taste of cooked flesh. She hated the way her once-wolf son looked, in his human clothes. And the soft touch of the furs under her feet here seemed wrong, for there was no contrast of hard ground underneath. She whined and whined at him until he let her go.

  “He mourned her absence, but in time taught his own son to speak the language of the wolves as he had learned it. They went often to the forest and called to the wolves, and though his wolf-mother was long dead, still the wolves knew him and did not fear him. They spoke to him freely, and his son learned in his turn the way to speak with wolves. And with other animals.

  “At the end of his life, the man went to the forest and lay down, calling to the wolves to come and devour him. But as the wolves came closer and began to tear at him, the man’s body was transformed into the body of a wolf. He died as a wolf, at their hands, and this, they say, was the beginning of the animal magic.”

  The bear thought of the magic he had seen in Prince George’s kingdom—of speaking to animals only, not transforming into them. What had happened? Even Prince George had never made himself into an animal. Was magic growing weaker with time?

  “Good,” said Sharla to her daughter. “You always tell that story with feeling.”

  “And what is your point?” asked Frant. “That those who have grown up too much with animals have no chance of being happy with humans?” He glanced at his son and then away.

  “No,” said Sharla gently. “Only that there is animal in all of us, and the more we have of it, the more magic we have. We should seek it out, for it is that which makes us truly alive.”

  Frant’s jaw was clenched. “I want my son to have a life like mine.”

  “And if he wants one that is better for him?” asked Sharla.

  She suddenly shouted at her daughters to leave their brother alone, speaking partly in human language and partly in the language of the hounds. Annoyed with their teasing, the boy had begun biting his sisters as a hound would have done.

  Finally the others quieted and slept.

  But the bear stared at the stars, thinking of the approaching encounter with the wild man. He did not know what would happen this time, but he knew what had happened last time. The wild man had been harsh and unrelenting, hardly human at all. He had been a mouthpiece for the magic.

  The bear feared that magic greatly. But he feared the unmagic even more.

  His thoughts turned to the hound.

  He had allowed her to come too far with him. He could have stopped her and he had not.

  Now he would.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Hound

  IN THE MORNING the hound awoke as the family prepared to leave. The bear was still sleeping, and she thought she should leave him be.

  The boy spoke in the language of the hounds, furtively watching for his mother’s disapproval. He was in the shape of a boy, and the others of his family all spoke as humans.

  But the hound loved to hear the familiar sounds, and to be able to speak back in them was too tempting for her to resist.

  She listened as he told her of the best parts of the forest here for hunting, for hearing howls echoed back, for running a race without obstacles. He wanted her to race with him and changed himself into a hound to do so, but his mother called him back and insisted he help with the chores around the camp, such as disguising their tracks and scattering dirt over the fire and their sleeping places to make sure no smell of them remained.

  Just before they left, the hound had an idea. Speaking to the boy had made her realize that she could speak to the family as well. They would understand her.

  Excitedly she leaped toward the woman and explained about Prince George and his proclamation about animal magic. She told them about his history with magic, his mother, and his school for animal magic.

  Frant’s eyes lit, but he was cautious. “And can he protect us?” he asked, in the language of the hounds.

  The hound thought of the blond boy and his call for war. Still, if there was ever a hope for the family to find safety in using their magic freely, it was with George.

  “With his own life and the power of his kingdom,” said the hound firmly. “He will do all he can.” She would have sworn it if there were words for such a thing in the language of the hounds. But it was a human thing.

  Sharla asked, in the language of humans, “He has the magic himself?”

  The hound nodded.

  “How do we know he will not be murdered and all the rest of us with him?” asked Frant.

  The hound did not know how to answer that. Hounds expected death. Humans found it a surprise, as if life could exist without death alongside it, as if all death were the death of unmagic.

  “If we wish to have a home, we must take a risk,” said Sharla. “Why not with this man, at this time?”

  “Risk our children?” asked Frant.

  “They are at risk in any case. The only difference is that with the prince the reward is greater.”

  Frant thought a long time, then nodded.

  “Thank you,” said Sharla, tears in her eyes, and for the first time speaking in the language of the hounds. “And thank him as well.” She gestured to the sleeping bear.

  When the bear awoke at last, the family was long gone, along with all traces of their presence.

  The hound waited for him to stretch and find a morning drink before she tried to tell him where the family had gone. She noticed that the bear seemed unusually qui
et and his expression was dark and distant. She thought it was only that the family was gone, and he was lonely again for human company.

  But when she turned at the sound of his approaching, he was a great blur of movement rushing at her face. She had no chance to cry out, or to think at all, before he slammed into her side with his head.

  In the long moment of her falling, she searched for some explanation, and knew that was a human thing. A hound needed no reason for violence in the forest.

  Then she felt the pain, the lack of breath, the ground driving into her chest. She was a hound again. In a battle with a bear.

  She slowly pulled herself up, her legs running cold with sweat, but she did not try to escape. A hound would never turn away from a battle.

  The bear snarled at her, then came running once more. This time he did not charge into her and send her flying. He let his claws slash into her belly.

  She threw herself at the bear and fought for her life. She bit and clawed and kicked and tore, and then stopped suddenly as the pain reached her with a sharp burning sensation. It was too much. Her eyes glazed over and her body slowed. She waited for death, as any hound would wait, panting, gasping, wheezing.

  And saw the bear’s face over hers, grief and disgust in his eyes.

  And she remembered moments together with him, in the cave, in the forest, with the cat man.

  She reached out a paw to offer him comfort.

  And the bear lifted her into the air and threw her backward. She could feel the bite of the wound in her side. Then the tree behind her struck like a sword.

  She could see nothing.

  But she could smell the bear near her, hovering again.

  She opened her mouth, wanting to say one last thing to the bear, but then she remembered that he could not understand her.

  He would never understand her.

  She woke in the dark, sprawled on the forest floor, her mouth filled with blood and leaves, and the bear nowhere in sight—or smell.

  A sensible hound would lie there until recovered. Or bark softly, hoping for other hounds of her pack to hear. Or drag herself away from the site of the battle.

  She did none of those things.

  She thought of the bear’s disgusted expression before he had thrown her away from him.

  It only made sense to her when she took the time to puzzle it out, as a human would.

  She knew the bear was afraid of seeing the wild man again. She thought that he must be protecting her in his strange, human way.

  Stupid man.

  Did he not see that there was strength in pack, no matter how small it was?

  She tested her legs separately before she tried to put any weight on them. Her lame leg, the left hind leg, had taken the worst of the fall. It was very sore and swollen, but not broken. The others were well enough—she could put weight on them without sharp, stabbing pain.

  She tested herself further.

  When she shifted, she could feel the tightness on her belly where the bear’s claw had caught her. The wound had already begun to heal, but the scab of dried blood was tight. She would tear it open if she tried to move. More if she tried to walk or run. But that did not matter.

  The hound crawled forward, feeling weak and unsteady. Her vision swam. She had eaten the evening before the bear attacked her, but how long had it been since then? If she were to recover from this, she needed strength, and that meant food.

  She looked around her and saw beetles boring into a fallen log. A hound did not eat beetles.

  But in an emergency a human would.

  She put out a paw, scooped up a handful of beetles, and poured them into her mouth.

  She swallowed as quickly as she could without chewing. Nonetheless, her stomach felt tight and hot, as if the beetles were not yet dead and were running around inside of her.

  She waited, and gradually felt better.

  More beetles?

  No.

  She pulled herself up on all fours and limped, tail between her legs, head close to the ground to sniff for water.

  There was a pond ahead, fed from an underground stream she could smell but not see. It was not deep, but it was enough for her to drink from, and the water was fresh.

  She slaked her thirst, and strangely felt even more hungry.

  It bothered her that she could not ignore her hunger.

  But when an animal was hungry, it acted on that hunger. Only a human tried not to feel what she felt.

  For now, she would do as a hound and deal with her hunger.

  She waited by the stream. It was a good place to be, for other animals must come here.

  Soon enough, a vole stopped to get a drink.

  She pounced on it and killed it instantly. She would ordinarily have taken her time to enjoy the taste of it, but she found herself hurrying through the meal as only a human would, for all that mattered was filling her stomach enough to follow the bear.

  She washed herself in the stream, cleaning the dried blood off her belly.

  She went back to where she had last seen the bear, set her nose to the ground to find the bear’s scent, and there it was—headed directly north.

  The hound followed the scent for a full day before she allowed herself to rest for a few hours the next night. The mountains were growing steeper here. She had to stop frequently to catch her breath, and she left a trail of blood drops behind her. Her belly wound had reopened and oozed blood down her left hind leg, but it closed again as she rested.

  She went another day, and found a place where the bear had fallen. She could smell his scent, and then suddenly it was gone. She had to go back down to another level to find it again, at a less steep section of the mountain.

  She saw berry bushes now and again that the bear appeared to have picked from, but no roots. He seemed to sleep near rocks, as if to make a place like his cool cave.

  The hound slept near logs, with her back to them. A part of her was afraid that the bear would come back and fight her again, so she prepared for that possibility. She was ready for a fight at any moment, waking or sleeping, climbing or resting.

  In two more days the hound was over the first mountain range and got her first glimpse of the larger mountains beyond. She had never seen anything so impressive.

  King Helm’s palace with its stone towers and guards was merely a poor imitation of this beauty. The mountains rose up so sharply that anyone would look at them and tremble.

  Stopping there, the hound felt the magic.

  She had felt something before, a pressure inside her head, a feeling of heaviness. But she had not been sure what it was. She thought it might simply be the effect of the mountains themselves, how high they were.

  Or it could have been the exhaustion she felt, and the sense of loss, after the bear had left her and she had to travel alone through a place she had never seen before.

  But as it continued, she realized it was none of those things.

  It was a magic so immense and powerful that it could fill the open space of the mountainous expanse and still throb and pulse at her, as if demanding that it spread yet farther.

  Prince George’s magic, when it had transformed her back into a hound, had been a kind magic. It had not been painless, but it had touched her with no intent except to do what she most wished for. It was an obedient magic, meant to be called for and used.

  This magic was its own wild thing, as much like the magic she had felt before as was a trained pup to a wild hound.

  For a long moment she faltered.

  She could go back, she thought.

  To the forest at the foot of the first mountains.

  Stay there, be safe. Wait for the bear to return.

  But she had never been a coward, not as a wild hound and not as a human princess, either.

  The bear belonged with her, and she would go to him and face what he would face.

  She moved onward, her face against the magic as if against a strong wind.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

/>   The Bear

  THE BEAR HATED the wild man’s mountains. He hated the small rocks that tore at the soft spots on his paws and the large rocks that cut at his skin when he squeezed by them. He hated the way that the rocks shifted as he stepped on them, then heaved him forward to knock him down, breathless and bruised.

  He hated the thin air that made it so that he had to take in two breaths for every step he took and still feel as though his lungs were constricted. He hated the cold that the wind whipped at him when he was sharp and awake, but he hated it just as much when he was trying to rest, and the cold, persistent and prickling, kept at him.

  Most of all, though, he hated the pressure of the magic on every part of him, overwhelming and unrelenting.

  How to describe it?

  A fine meal at court, when he had been king and dish after dish had been brought before him, each more delicious than the last. His stomach was full early on, but he could not stop taking just one more bite, and another bite.

  It had nothing to do with not offending his cook. He was king. He could do what he pleased, and the cook had no say in it.

  It was only that he wanted more.

  This magic was like that. Some part of him wanted it, though another part of him was overwhelmed by it.

  He felt overcome by the sweet scent of the brush here. He felt even the tiny thorns in his paws from the little creeping vine that seemed to find a place to grow even in the deepest crevices of the rock. For it was as if the vine spoke to him and the brush sang to him. They knew themselves and they knew him.

  He had no doubt that this was where the wild man must be. Who else could survive here?

  His dread rose as it began to snow. Soon he could no longer feel his extremities. And at every step he was afraid.

  He remembered a story he had heard once, of a man who had decided one day to change himself into a snake because it was the least like himself of all the animals. A snake had no legs, had scales, and was not a warm-blooded creature. So becoming a snake would prove that he had more animal magic than any pretenders.