CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
That winter the snow came hard, which made for a wet spring. Casseomae’s meadow was thick with wildflowers and delicious insects. Nesting birds darted through the shattered windows of vine-tangled relics to bring food to their hatchlings.
A yearling cub rolled at Casseomae’s feet. He growled and nipped at her chin. His fur was fuzzy and full of leaves. Casseomae pushed him with her snout, saying, “Get on, you little rascal.”
He ignored her, climbing onto Casseomae’s back. Her shoulder still ached dully from Mother Death’s bite, but the infection had long since healed, as had the wound in her hip.
“You’ve gotten too big for that,” Casseomae growled, rolling onto her side to throw the cub off.
Dubhe came around a relic, her other two cubs beside her. They had grown bigger over the winter. By fall they would be on their own. The cubs stared at Casseomae with their usual mixture of fear and respect.
“There he is,” Dubhe said. “Casseomae, I hope he hasn’t been bothering you again.”
“No,” she snorted. “He’s fine. A strong little one you’ve got there. He reminds me of Chief Alioth when he was a cub. Maybe he’ll be chief one day.”
“Maybe,” Dubhe said. “If he does, his rule will be peaceful, thanks to you.” She gathered her cub and set off to forage in the Forest.
Casseomae stretched in her den’s doorway, enjoying the warm sun. She had hardly closed her eyes before clicking teeth woke her. Casseomae grunted. “It seems the sloth hears strange new stories every day of what I did.”
Dumpster wiggled his whiskers. “I don’t scratchin’ know what you’re talking about,” he said. “You think my mischief talks to bears? Not likely!”
“Then why do they think I rid the Forest of the Ogeema and his pack?” Casseomae asked.
“Must be the coyotes,” Dumpster said. “Those underlickin’ sons of curs are trying to stir up the packs again.”
Casseomae snorted dubiously. “More likely some rodents are hoping to keep voras out of my meadow and away from their colony.”
“Delusional, old bear,” the rat said, scampering back into the thick grass. “Completely delusional, you are.”
Casseomae closed her eyes and settled back in the sunshine. She had just drifted to sleep again when another sound woke her. She lifted her head. The sound was familiar, but it filled her with unease. It sounded like a distant roar, and it came from the sky.
She looked up as the roar grew and then changed to a whoosh of wind, quickly growing quieter and receding into the distance. She saw the source of the sound before it disappeared over the treetops. It was black and birdlike in shape. But it was no bird.
In a moment, it was gone.
Slowly, the familiar sounds of the Forest returned. Casseomae looked once more to the sky before lumbering into her den.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
J. R. R. Tolkien said that story ideas arise from “the leaf-mould of the mind.” This story grew out of the rich compost of Alan Weisman’s speculative science book The World Without Us; Native American creation myths; one of the first postapocalyptic novels (and possibly the only hopeful one), Earth Abides by George R. Stewart; and the animal-fantasy classics The Jungle Book by Rudyard Kipling and Watership Down by Richard Adams.
Stories don’t just fall from the sky, and The Prince Who Fell from the Sky would not have come about without the insights and help of many wonderful and talented people. To those friends and colleagues—many of whom could not be named here—I am eternally grateful.
Thanks to my editor, Jim Thomas, whose brilliant instincts and creative vision deepened the characters and brought out the heart of this story. Also thanks to Lauren Donovan, Chelsea Eberly, Sarah Nasif, and the other wonderful people at Random House Children’s Books.
To my agent, Josh Adams, for his persistence and unwavering enthusiasm. Your talents are manifold, not least of them being your ability to always help push my stories in the best direction.
To my critique group, Jennifer Harrod, Stephen Messer, and Jen Wichman (aka J. J. Johnson). Your guidance as writers and caring as friends have allowed me to take artistic risks I never would have ventured without your thoughtful and honest suggestions.
A final special thanks to my wife, Amy Gorely. Your love and support have helped keep all things in balance.
JOHN CLAUDE BEMIS is the author of the fantasy-steampunk trilogy the Clockwork Dark, which is composed of The Nine Pound Hammer, The Wolf Tree, and The White City. His books have been described as “original and fresh” and “a unique way of creating fantasy.” John lives with his wife and daughter in Hillsborough, North Carolina.
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