Nina, the Bear's Child

by Jennifer Moorman

  A Retelling

  Jennifer Moorman

  Nina, the Bear's Child is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2021 by Jennifer Moorman

  www.jennifermoorman.com

  Cover Design by Julianne St. Clair

  www.juliannestclair.com

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or otherwise—except for the use of brief quotations in critical articles or book reviews—without prior permission in writing from the author.

  Other Works by Jennifer Moorman

  The Mystic Water Series

  The Baker’s Man

  Little Blackbird

  Honeysuckle Hollow

  Full Moon June

  The Legend of James Grey

  Average April

  Wednesday’s Child

  Finding May

  Starry Sky July

  Sweet Canary Jane

  Digital Magazine

  This Inspired Life Magazine

  I am going to make everything around me beautiful—that will be my life.

  Elsie Wolfe

  For anyone

  who reads these words

  and feels them resonate in your soul

  and you intentionally practice them . . .

  Thank you for making life more beautiful,

  more magical, and more extraordinary.

  Never stop. It matters. I see you.

  Not so long ago, it was common knowledge that the farther one ventured into the Acadia forest, the more enchanted and mischievous it became. Mythical creatures, both benign and malevolent, inhabited the deepest parts of the unmapped areas. Everyone knew there were goblins that could lure you into the Cave of Madness, which was blacker than a raven’s wing and caused immediate hallucinations followed closely by permanent insanity. Only a few lost travelers had ever crawled out of the cave to babble their incoherent tales, and they were often banished like items of shame to the murky outskirts of society to rock away their madness alone.

  There were also fairies flittering through the red spruce and hemlock trees. They could teach you to call on your ancestral spirits to dance with you in the moonlight. They could train you to sit on the edge of the lake at nightfall and invite stars down from the heavens to bounce across the water, skipping like fiery stones.

  The elders spoke about animals living in the forest that could talk and guide humans, animals that lived and worked together in their own woodland societies, but these stories made children laugh now because the younger ones no longer truly believed in magic, even if they still feared it.

  The Acadia forest fascinated a few but terrified most, though no one admitted either in public. People chose not to live near the forest, and only skilled hunters entered through the trees in pairs to search for deer, bear, and rabbits. They also brought back squirrels and snakes to skin and eat or hang to dry so they’d have food during the long, harsh winters. But even the hunters knew of the boundary lines inside the forest that marked the safe zones. Anyone crossing those boundaries would likely never return.

  But not everyone thought the forest was sinister; not everyone believed it was a place of death and trickery. One man in particular found being near the forest caused his eyes to brighten and his heart to quiver with excitement. He was tall and thin like a blueleaf birch and twice as strong as an oak. His slender fingers resembled dark brown branches, and together with his skinny toes, he could climb trees faster than a black bear.

  As a boy, he’d been fascinated by the mystical tales weaved around campfires. While others trembled and swore bloods oaths never to wander into the forest, he kept his windows open at night, listening to the woods calling him. Whenever he could sneak away from the adults, he’d disappear into the forest, blending into the brush, becoming like shadow. He never went too far in, though, because he wasn’t foolish, but he’d travel deep enough in to feel the magic of the place pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat. Those were the moments when he felt most alive.

  When he was a man, he built a small cottage in a hollow on the edge of the Acadia forest. He lived alone for many years. Then one day he met a woman who also saw the woods as a place of dreams and light. There were dangers lurking in there, she knew, but she’d felt more ominous energy emanating from the souls of men. She was an unsettlingly beautiful young girl, so to avoid the stares, both adoring and angry, she hid herself away among the trees. There she gathered fresh pine needles, red maple leaves, and blooming wildflowers—aster, lily of the valley, bunchberry, bluebead lily, goldenrod, and starflower. She brought home baskets full of ferns, lichens, and mosses she found in the forest. With silvery threads and dewdrops, she stitched together fanciful dresses that felt soft and luxurious against the skin. As she grew, she learned how to sew in falcon feathers to bring victory and how to add blue tourmaline for restoration. Many coveted her talent, but no one dared enter the forest to collect the supplies they’d need to copy her work. So people ached for her creations and begged her to add their desires to her long list of requests.

  The man trekked into the forest every day, collecting fallen branches, some as thick as his torso, and others as thin as a reed. He carved and crafted, creating furniture for his home and other pieces to sell. He whittled hummingbirds out of ash and sold them to townsfolk who hung them in windows to remind them to be present and playful. It was during one afternoon with an armful of logs when he stumbled upon the loveliest woman he’d ever seen. Not only her beauty stunned him but also the way the trees and sunlight moved toward her as though captivated. He too was mesmerized.

  When she smiled at him that afternoon, he smiled in return, and they knew. Their love for the forest brought them together, and they lived at the edge of the woods in the cottage he’d built, listening to the warblers’ chipping songs and the chickadee whistles. He filled the cupboards with mismatched wooden dishes, each polished to a shine that reflected the stars and their smiles. She sewed playful fabrics to cover their bed and curtain the windows. They watched eagles soaring through sunlight and heard the owls hooting on the new moon. And some nights they imagined they heard whispering voices—forest voices carried on the breeze, rustling through the firs, and slipping in through open windows.

  Just when they thought their lives couldn’t expand with any more happiness, they found out they were having a baby. They spent the next nine months preparing and dancing in anticipation. They built an extra room onto the cottage and decorated it to resemble a magical forest hideaway.

  They awoke one morning, chilled in their beds, teeth chattering and opened the curtains to see the whole forest had burst into brilliant colors, as though autumn had pushed out summer overnight. They lit a fire and warmed their hands, speaking in hushed tones about what such a swift change could mean. That afternoon they heard a rustling at the front door, a prowler in the yard. An enormous gray wolf watched them with a stare so heavy it pierced their souls.

  The wolf gazed at them a moment longer and then nodded its head toward the forest, to the wildness within. The woman placed her hand on her swollen belly. Shivers traveled over their skin because they knew the meaning of the wolf totem. They understood that powerful passions were coming; instincts, primal and sharp-edged, were approaching.

  When the aching started low in her belly, and contractions had her clenching her jaw, she knew what else was coming. It was a month too soon for her baby to arrive, but there
was no way to stop what was happening. Faster than they could pack an overnight bag, their baby girl arrived like a rush of fire, overtaking them, scaring them, and ultimately warming them with her presence.

  They named her Nina, meaning “fiery, mighty one,” because although she was as small as a rabbit, little Nina was feisty and had wild, dark eyes that understood far more than they should.

  At eight, Nina was small for her age, gangly and as thin as a blade of witchgrass, with long straight hair she kept pulled away from her face with crowns made of twigs and wildflowers. She had very little fear of the woods and an abundance of wonder, but she tried to obey her parents' rules about how far she could explore, and she listened when they cautioned her about the secrets of the Acadia forest.

  It wasn’t that Nina didn’t believe her parents’ stories of magic and creatures and the Cave of Madness. She believed in their stories so intensely that she often wished for the chance to encounter the forest magic for herself. Nina left out bowls of milk for fairies. She scattered black tourmaline around the cottage to appease the goblins. She collected colored glass bottles and hung them on the lowest branches of her favorite trees. These, she knew, would capture evil spirits, stripping them of malice and leaving only their glow to sparkle in the bottles. She performed silly dances for the tree spirits and thanked them for their shade and protection.

  Nina learned the townsfolk believed a witch lived near the cliffs surrounding the bay, and they were frightened to go near her, believing she would curse them or steal their children. But fear didn’t move through Nina’s blood; it didn’t infect her heart like it did with others. Because Nina had a special talent.

  If she relaxed her mind and focused her thoughts, when she looked at people, she saw them as though they were made of glass. She could see inside of them, see their colorful spirits, see their intentions, so Nina didn’t feel fear the same way as the others. She often understood people better than they understood themselves.

  Some people were brilliant, pink and peach like a sunrise. These people were warm and comforting, and Nina gravitated toward them. Their laughter danced across her skin, and their touch was kind. Others were murky and filled with wildfire smoke; they smelled like decaying leaves. Nina kept her distance from these people. Their voices slithered, and their shadows were too long. These were the actual people to fear.

  So rather than feel afraid of a witch, when Nina went to the bay, she sang songs of friendship and hope along the shoreline, believing if the witch were all alone, maybe the songs gave her comfort. Nina also believed that if she were ever to see the witch, she’d be able to know immediately whether or not the witch was someone to dread. She imagined a witch would have insides like a rainbow, inhabiting all colors, both dark and light, yet balancing them into glorious beauty.

  So Nina lived her days in a near constant state of curiosity. Life fascinated her, and she wanted to learn all she could. She begged her father to teach her his woodworking craft. Rather than build furniture like he did, Nina carved tiny tables and chairs and fairy doors. She built miniature cottages and wheelbarrows with wooden wheels. Then she carried her creations as far into the forest as she was allowed and offered them to the hidden creatures.

  She carved a bow and arrow set but not to hunt with. She attached feather-light fabrics with long ribboned tails to the tip of her arrowhead and shot her creation into the sky on windy days. The wind snatched the homemade kite from the arrow’s tip, and she’d run around the hollow, whooping and flying her kite.

  Her father sometimes called her Little Fire when her zeal for life burned hot inside her like an unquenchable fire. Other times he called her his Little Hummingbird because her fluttering joy and persistent happiness made them feel lifted on wings of delight.

  Her mother taught her to make fabrics from woodland gifts and how to sew flowers into her clothing. Once she mastered the basics, Nina stitched tiny things. She made socks and overalls and dresses and belts in every color, and she created curtains and rugs and blankets because Nina believed the forest creatures would like beautiful treasures too.

  Nina pieced together quilts made of asters and lilies and wrapped herself up in them so she could lie in the yard and stare up at a winter night sky crowded with twinkling constellations.

  Nina often traveled into town with her parents when they went to sell their wares. She played with the local children and absorbed their stories like a sponge tossed into water. The more she knew about the Acadia forest and its inhabitants, the more she loved it.

  While in town with her father late one afternoon, when Nina was ten, the sun slid toward the horizon and the sky darkened. Nina felt a shudder deep in her bones. It rattled her so hard that her teeth chattered. She stopped building her house of sticks in the park and looked toward town.

  Her father stepped out of a local shop and waved her over. Nina brushed the dirt from her hands and raced to him. His smile should have settled her, but it didn’t because another man stood on the street beside her father.

  He was a hunter, Nina knew. His fingernails were dirty, and he looked like someone who’d been smacked in the face a dozen times with a shovel. His shoulders were broad like a black bear, and his eyes were shiny and hungry like a wolf. He carried anger inside him, and it burned bright and hot like a funeral pyre.

  Nina took three steps back from the hunter and reached for her father’s hand to pull him away too. But her father said the townsfolk required his assistance tonight. A town elder needed help repairing the storehouse where much of the town’s meat and winter supplies were kept. The storehouse assured the people that regardless of how relentless the coming winter might be, there would always be food for the shops, restaurants, and locals.

  But a bear, possibly more than one, had mauled its way through the door and shattered windows. It ransacked the food supplies, leaving nothing behind but splintered crates, smashed barrels, broken glass, and a sticky trail of enormous paw prints leading back into the Acadia forest. A group of skilled men, including her father, had volunteered to help repair the storehouse while another group of hunters swore to kill every bear in the forest, regardless of how some of the townsfolk protested. Many people believed bears were sacred totems, spirit animals representing strength, healing, and powerful grounding forces to nature and the earth.

  But others were concerned only with their own well-being; it didn’t matter if the bears starved because to these people, only human life should be protected. Nina recognized the hunter before her as one of these people, someone who didn’t value animal life in the way she’d been taught to. She also sensed that human life, if it conflicted with the hunter’s own desires, could be tossed aside for his own gain.

  Nina’s father told her to hurry home and let her mother know and not to hold supper. He promised he would be home before midnight, but Nina’s heart squeezed in a way it never had before. She wanted to argue, but she knew it would embarrass her father to be disobeyed in front of the hunter. Nina ran all the way home, feeling chased by something she couldn’t outrun.

  Nina’s mother sensed her daughter’s disquiet and added her own unease to the evening. They gazed at the front door so often it was as though they anticipated an unexpected visitor at any moment. But dinner finished, the dishes were put away, and Nina was sent to bed after an uneventful evening. Although she fell asleep, Nina’s dreams were fractured and full of ashes. She awoke as the sun broke across the tops of the trees and the front door slammed open.

  Nina leaped out of bed and flung open her bedroom door. The snarling hunter stomped into their home, saying he and her father had ventured into the woods, looking for fallen trees to use on the storehouse. An enormous bear attacked them. Nina shuddered listening to the hunter’s gruff, slithery cadence as he explained how her father had not escaped. The hunter’s presence in the cottage caused the shadows to expand inside, and the small fire in the hearth extinguished.

  Nina’s mother banished her to her room, but not even her moth
er’s command could keep Nina sitting on her bed without answers. She eased open her bedroom door and listened to details about how the hunter had tried to fight off the bear, but he’d been overpowered by its monstrous size and incredible strength. The hunter had been lucky to get away with his own life.

  Nina’s mother thanked the hunter for the news but assured him that he didn’t need to stay longer. Nina crept out of her bedroom. The hunter hesitated, watched her mother with eyes like a coyote, with pupils that narrowed vertically. After two heartbeats too long, he left.

  All day and night Nina’s mother paced, restlessly muttering to herself. Should they go and look for him? Would they find a body? Would they find anything recognizable? What if, by some miracle, her father was still alive? Nina smashed herbs and petals together, just as she’d seen her mother do countless times, and she created a paste colored like mud and another the shade of lungwort lichen. She smothered the pastes on slices of bread, begging her mother to eat and relax.

  Still her mother paced, whispering that her father could be alive. She pounded her fist against her chest, saying she would feel it in her heart if he was truly gone. What if he was suffering, alone and wounded? Could they find him if they searched?

  Nina brewed ginger tea and crushed basil, but calm seemed impossible for her mother to invite back into her body. She stood at the windows and trembled, staring out into a world that had shocked her into silence with its cruelty.

  As the moon rose, exhausted and nearly delirious, Nina obeyed when her mother sent her to bed. She kissed Nina’s forehead and thanked her, saying all would be better in the morning. But her mother’s words stuck in the air like low-hanging thunderclouds, stinking of sulfur and dying hope.

  Hours later Nina startled awake, shivering as though dropped into the bay in December. The house was deathly quiet; even the forest was still. Unnaturally so. No wind. No hoots from the owl. The silence was so heavy Nina could barely get out of bed beneath the weight of it. She felt as though her body was moving through mountain fog made of turpentine.