The Bear

A Flash Fiction Folktale

The hunters gathered around the big fire in the cold dawn. Sleepy village wives watched blearily from the doorways, bouncing babies on their angular hips. The men were dressed in heavy fur parkas and stout boots, the ancient bear spears clutched in their hands. The spears were taller than the men, with brutal heads of steel. The men didn’t talk, each one swallowing his fear with the cold air.

The men were young, dark-bearded. Their faces were already hardened and lined like the faces of their fathers who circulated among them, doling out solemn bits of advice, checking and rechecking the weapons, urging courage in the face of this impossible task. One of these young men would be chosen and marked by the bear; would return with the beast god’s fire burning through his veins to take up his mantle as village healer. The others …

A sixth figure, bundled in furs like the rest but without a weapon, walked toward the group through the thin mist and the smoke of the cookfires. The men eyed it and turned away. This hunter did not belong, either to the village or to the tradition. A woman from outside, she had a long red braid that hung out of her hood like a sleeping snake and a freckled skin like milk dusted with nutmeg. She waited silently outside the knot of men, unperturbed by their snubbing. The watching wives did not speak, yet a kind of murmur passed among them like a breeze. It was not unheard of for women to attend the hunt for the great bear, but it had been many generations since one had been marked a healer, and never had an outsider made the attempt.

A grandfather approached the woman, his stern face toughened by the years into an impassive leather mask. He stood looking at her, and she returned his gaze. The other men turned to watch the exchange.

“You will be killed. Why go?” His voice was soft as a sigh. He turned his head and spat on the ground. “You have no weapons.”

The woman, who had clenched her fear into an icy ball in her middle, looked toward the dark spruce mountains. The mist rose in silver scarves from them, and they seemed to breathe winter onto the air.

“I will go because I must. I don’t need a weapon. Do you understand about my dream?’

The old man nodded. He had heard the dream, the night message that had brought the woman here from her faraway life. He did not discount such things. He reached out and clasped her slight shoulder.

“I do not think I will see you again but listen now. Face the bear with bravery. When it is your turn, do not run.”

He gave a curt nod and walked back to his house, to his breakfast and his morning routine. If the outland woman sacrificed herself to the bear, it was not because she hadn’t been warned.

*****

The hunters climbed the narrow path in single file, the harsh sawing of their breath written on the air. The woman followed, last in line, ignored but not forgotten. The men held to a steady pace with which she could keep up, their one unspoken courtesy. It was cold, and the ground was stony. They were above the slender tops of the spruces. Snow lay in thin, crystalline patches, curled into the root hollows, and fell in spiraling flakes that clung to her eyelashes. She could smell the frozen earth, the sharp and dusty fragrance of cold stone, and the sweet conifers. Looking up, she could see the top of the ridge, razor sharp against a grieving sky. She could see the entrance to the cave.

As the first hunter set his boot on the bare earth in front of the cave, a roar shook the trees. They all froze. Their blood froze, their hearts froze, six small people turned to stone at the tremendous voice of the Forest King. The men made sure of their grasps on their spears. They would enter the cave one by one, like supplicants, but ready to do battle. Don’t go in, the woman thought. Oh god, don’t go in there. But they did go in. One after another, the hard young men went in, and none of them came out. Then it was her turn.

She stepped to the mouth of the cave. Inside, the floor was fine, silted earth, clean and bare as a ballroom. Against the walls, rolled and tumbled like discarded playthings, were the five hunters. Carnage. Her eyes grew wide and the icy pellet of fear in her stomach expanded and sent its tentacles out into her veins. She looked up from the floor of the cave and the creature that dwelled there stood, up and up, towering and roaring. It was no bear. It looked like a bear. It had a hot, red gullet and the claws and teeth of a bear. It was dark as death, and massive in the way of a bear, but she made no mistake. This was an elemental god, and she was stupid for coming here. She would never leave.

The bear god’s voice shivered her skull and dissolved her will. In one rapid, elegant sweep of its shaggy arm, it gathered her to it and shook her. Something snapped, and she felt nothing. Pain was beyond her, and she surrendered, draped like a limp fairytale princess over the deadly claws.

“See how easily it is done.”

The voice was deep and easy, hard as granite and faintly amused. All her fear fled at the sound of it, and she was grateful. Grateful to be taken down to her fundamental parts by this great mechanic. Deft claws hooked her skin and unzipped it from her like a wetsuit, turned her inside out and counted her bones.

When the woman woke, she was alone. The cave was empty of all but the wind that sang in its throat. She rose, re-assembled in proper order, and began the long walk back to the village.

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Author’s Note: This story was written while I was studying and preparing to grasp my own mantle of healing. It was an intense time; a time of learning the ways of the physical body, yes, but a time also of expanding my understanding of energy and connection. All of that powerful knowledge created, one night, a dream. The dream became this story. As I learn over and over, nothing is wasted.