Journey of the Pale Bear

by Susan Fletcher

  Son.

  I could see the captain bestowing a heap of silver coins upon me, and maybe a medal, too. Better still: I imagined Hauk slinking off into some dark corner with his tail between his legs.

  The bear gave a snort. She rolled over onto her belly, closer to me, and pressed one warm, furry footpad against my leg. As if she wanted to make sure I was still there. As if she were watching out for me.

  My imaginings collapsed, and a thrum of uncertainty wormed its way into my chest. A night bird called, sounding harsh and strange. Something splashed in a nearby pond, and a small breeze stirred the grasses.

  I gazed at the bear, the bear of whom I ought to have been afraid. But this bear knew me, protected me, fed me—like some magical creature from the old stories. As if she considered me . . . well, not precisely a bear like herself, but an honorary bear.

  Away in the distance, a wolf howled, then another, sending a cold shiver up my spine. But the bear didn’t so much as flick an ear.

  And why should she be afraid? And why should I, with her to protect me?

  Something heavy sloughed off me, like a mountain shrugging off a mass of wet snow. I had survived pirates and a shipwreck. I had escaped a hail of arrows. I had run with a great ice bear. There was no one to mock me, to strike me, to tell me where I had to be or what I had to do. I had no master now; I was free.

  And yet . . .

  I harked back to the day when I led the bear back into her cage on the ship. How the bars had crowded in upon me. How the cage roof had darkened the sky.

  A chorus of wolves howled together, and the feeling of disquiet stirred again, burrowing its way deep within.

  CHAPTER 35

  Sound Like a Whip

  THE NEXT MORNING, when I awoke, I marked it again: a thin column of smoke to the west, twisting into the sky. But it seemed even closer than before.

  Was someone following us?

  Tracking us?

  The Queen Margrete, though, lay in the opposite direction—to the east and north. And if someone from the ship had been following all along, coming to rescue us, why wouldn’t he show himself? Surely he would have caught up to us by now, if he had wanted to.

  We had been seen by others—the brown-haired lass and the men who had shot at the bear. But why would they follow us?

  Unless they craved bear meat and a fine white pelt . . .

  The bear lifted her nose, sniffed at the wind.

  “Come on, Bear,” I said, “let’s be off.” Maybe there was no cause for worry. But the sooner we reached the Queen Margrete, the better I would feel.

  When at last we neared the southern shore of the bay, the bear suddenly veered and took off loping toward a copse of birches on a knoll a little way ahead. The wind bent the tops of the reeds and grasses, made them whisper and dance. Thin white clouds scudded across the sky, and in the distance, darker ones massed, portents of coming rain. As the sun rose high overhead, gleaming like pewter on the surface of the water, the bear disappeared into the trees.

  I heard a strange sound, then, as I drew near—a sound like a whip, and then a startled kind of grunt. Rustling, thumping noises. Suddenly, the bear cried out—a cry of rage, or maybe pain—with a pleading note at the end that twisted like a fishhook in my gut.

  I ran.

  Shadows fell over me, webbing the ground with darkness. But she was easy to spot among the trees, the great pale bulk of her moving strangely—jerky and hunched. Above her, something dark hung down from a branch, suspended from a rope. It was . . . part of a dead animal.

  Bait.

  I knew what to look for now; my eyes found the rope that led from a birch tree to the bear’s hind leg.

  A snare.

  The bear heaved and buckled and thrashed, fighting against the rope. The tree shivered, showering down leaves.

  She saw me coming, lunged toward me. Calling out, as you would call to a friend for help. The rope pulled her up short. She slashed at it, bit at it. Her leg, I saw, was bleeding. She lunged again, twisting it at an unnatural angle.

  She was going to hurt herself if I didn’t cut her loose.

  Again, she lunged, and I circled round to the far side of the tree. There was nothing to prevent her from crushing me, but if I could keep the tree between us . . . I reached for the knife in my belt, slipped the tip of it under the rope that girded the trunk, and began to saw through.

  The rope was thick and strong. The bear crashed against the tree, making it tremble, and quaking the earth beneath my feet. I jumped back, out of the way. She recoiled and rammed her shoulder into the tree trunk, then staggered back, seeming dazed. Quickly, I slipped my blade under the rope and began to saw at it again. One by one, the strands began to sever. When only a few threads remained, the bear lunged hard away and, with a snap, she was free.

  She bolted through the copse, a length of rope dragging behind her. My heartbeat clattered in my chest; my legs and arms had gone to jelly. I peered up into the tree branches and made out a sleek, black animal head, and part of a shoulder. . . .

  A seal.

  Bait for an ice bear.

  The trapper wouldn’t be far—maybe just enough to keep from alarming the bear with his scent. But he would be back, and soon.

  Through a cage of tree trunks, I could see the bear growing smaller in the distance, the arrow still sticking out from her flank. And all at once my heart brimmed over with some raw, tender sensation I could not name.

  She had been stolen from her home for one king to give to another. She had been slashed with knives, shot with arrows, trapped in this snare.

  In my mind’s eye, I saw her carefree, pigeon-toed shuffle across the marsh. I saw her rearing up on hind legs to her full height, looking about and drinking in the smells on the wind. I saw her scattering the wild boars and felt her furry foot pressed gently against my back at night.

  And now the running energy was filling me up, was thrumming in my feet, my legs, my heart.

  I ran.

  CHAPTER 36

  Lopsided Hitch

  WHEN I CAME out of the trees, I saw the bear bolting toward the water, a narrow inlet off the southernmost tip of the bay, into which a wide river flowed. The dark clouds had spread across the sky, blotting out the sun.

  There was something different about her gait, a kind of lopsided hitch. It wasn’t just the trapline trailing from her leg and snagging in logs and bushes. It wasn’t just that she stopped from time to time to nip at the rope. It wasn’t that she staggered a little, seeming confused. No, I could see that she was injured; she limped.

  I ran after, and caught up to her at last near the banks of the bay as she stopped again to worry at the noose around her leg. She turned to look at me and grunted a grunt that told me that she trusted me, that she thought I might be able to help. I squatted beside her, began to hum. Blood caked the matted fur on her leg. I plucked at the noose, but it was embedded deep, past fur and into skin. I feared that if I pulled too hard, it might make her bleed even more.

  The tail of the rope had collected clumps of reeds and moss and fallen branches, which the bear had dragged behind her like an anchor. At least I could cut that short. I took the knife from my belt and sliced it through. The bear sniffed at my hands, then nuzzled my neck and my hair.

  A shout. I jumped up to see a man running toward us from the west. I caught the gleam of knives at his belt; I saw a web of ropes dangling from one shoulder; I took in his bushy, russet beard. . . .

  Familiar . . .

  The man with the bow and arrows? The one who had shot the bear?

  Now she heaved herself to her feet and made for the bay at a stumbling run. The man called out something I didn’t understand, and then called again:

  “Arthur!”

  But how did he know . . . ?

  Behind me, a splash. The man called my name again; I slipped the knife in my belt, turned my back on him, and flung myself into the bay. I kicked hard, reaching for the bear’s harness, and clung to it as she
stroked through the water and toward the far shore.

  CHAPTER 37

  Stealing from the King

  BY THE TIME we reached land, a light rain had begun to fall. The bear stumbled up onto the verge and, with a groan, sprawled out on her belly. I let go of her harness and collapsed against her side. I could feel her breathing against me, and the aura of heat that surrounded her. I could hear rain pattering on the ground beside me, and the splash of small waves against the shore. I could smell bear and mud and the lush green of fresh new grass.

  I knew I should get up, but I didn’t want to.

  I knew I should lead the bear toward the village where the ship was docked, but I didn’t want to.

  I knew I should turn her in to the captain, but I didn’t want to.

  The bear moaned and shifted; I sat up. She began to lick at her leg near the trapline noose. A ragged mat of seagrasses had wound itself around the rope; beneath, I could see blood clotted and seeping in bubbles on the black of her skin.

  A slow tide of anger began to rise within my chest.

  Who had done this to her?

  That man with the russet beard—the trapper—had known my name. So, had someone from the ship sent him?

  The bear turned to worry at the arrow. Carefully, I explored the noose around her leg with my fingers. I picked at it until it began to loosen. I slipped the end of the rope through the noose and then carefully untangled rope and reeds from bear’s fur and teased them away from where they had lodged within her skin. I flung the trapline hard into a clump of long grasses.

  There!

  She looked at me. Gave a little grunt. It wasn’t gratefulness, exactly, but more like recognition: I see that you have done this for me. She began to lick her leg.

  The arrow, I saw, wobbled a bit; maybe it had begun to work its way out. But the skin at its base was swollen and warm to the touch. Festering. Before, I had feared to pull it free, but now a hot surge of rage swept through me, and I had the knife from my belt before I knew it. I pressed the tip hard against the skin near the arrowhead, jiggled the shaft, and it was out. The bear’s head jerked up; she let out a roar. I jumped back, away from her. She studied me for a long moment, then began to lick the arrow wound.

  I let out my breath. Flung the arrow into the grass beside the rope.

  But I wasn’t finished. Not yet.

  I slipped the knife under the harness at the bear’s neck and sliced it through. Then I cut through the leather strip at her back. I caught the harness before it slid to the ground and threw it into the grass beside the rope and the arrow.

  I was stealing, I knew. Stealing from the king.

  So be it.

  The bear was gazing at me again. I knew she was just a beast and had little understanding, but in that moment, it seemed that she knew well that an event of great gravity had just befallen her, something that would alter her life and mine.

  She leaned toward me. Snuffled at my hair, my neck, my face.

  “You’re free now,” I told her. “Where do you want to go?”

  As it happened, she wanted to go east.

  She rested for a while by the edge of the bay and then dragged herself heavily to her feet, put her nose to the wind, and began to limp across the grassy meadow. No longer did she move with that majestic, galumphing grace I had loved to behold. She moved in a tentative, wounded way. Like prey.

  This time, I followed her. I spared a glance to the north, in the direction of the village. I halfway hoped to catch sight of the Queen Margrete, but the sputtering rain made a dim gray screen all around us, and I could make out only a small stretch of the bay. My damp cloak and tunic clung to me; my feet chafed and stung. I tried not to think about a good, hot meal and a dry bed. I tried not to think about the doctor, for I knew in my heart he would be worried about me.

  The ground grew ever soggier. The bear’s footprints filled with water—and so did mine. It would take the trapper many hours to skirt the edge of the bay; if we were lucky, the rain would flood our tracks entirely.

  We slogged along steadily, over ground veined with runnelling creeks and streams. We startled frogs from their perches, caused herons to take flight, and scattered rafts of paddling ducks. From time to time I saw the whiplash of a water snake slithering past. Clouds of biting insects buzzed about us, causing the bear to shake her head in vexation and raising itchy red welts on my skin.

  I kept looking for the trapper, but saw no sign of him.

  We continued east, toward the land of the Danes. I recalled seeing that coastline from the ship—a peninsula pointing north. . . .

  To Norway.

  Could the bear smell Norway on the wind? Could she feel the tug of home, like a migrating bird?

  In the Queen Margrete, we had sailed past the gap between Norway and Denmark. The two lands had seemed a long way apart. . . but surely there must be islands in between? The bear was a powerful swimmer. Maybe she could ferry from one island to another. When winter came, the sea ice would draw the islands closer, and she wouldn’t have to swim so far.

  And as for me . . .

  The bear and I would have to part company, in time. For a while I had reveled in my freedom, but now I longed for shelter and warmth and a good cooked meal. And it came to me that bears can be free entirely, but men, unless they are kings, must bend a knee to someone. Even in Wales, I would have a master. And, truth be told, I craved the company of other people. My mother most of all, and the doctor . . . but even my stepbrothers would be welcome to me now. Even my stepfather. Even Hauk.

  So, maybe I could find a nearby town or a village where I could overwinter. And after that . . .

  Would my Welsh family accept me without the letter?

  Would I ever see the doctor again?

  And Mama . . . Would my stepfather allow me to return? If he did, could I stand to live by his rules, under his roof?

  I put my head down and kept walking. I could no more see my future than I could see Norway, or even the Queen Margrete.

  CHAPTER 38

  Pale, Soft Blossom

  THE NEXT MORNING, the bear was gone. Shivering, I rose to my feet and looked about me. The rain had ceased at last; the sun peeked over the eastern horizon, and a sheer mist lay low over the bog. From the knoll on which we had slept, a new trail of mashed grasses thrust northward, toward the sea. I scanned the marsh, and there, in the distance, saw the long white limping shape of her cresting a small rise.

  Why north? Why suddenly north, instead of east?

  A heavy, sick feeling came to squat in the pit of my stomach. The bear had changed direction before, when . . .

  And then I was running, running north, sloshing through marsh water, sinking into the mud, stumbling on rocks and roots. I called out to the bear to halt, to wait for me, but she did not, and soon she disappeared over the top of the hill.

  I ran until my legs cramped with pain, until my breath tore ragged at my throat. By the time I crested the rise, most of the mist had burned off. At a distance lay the sea. Nearer: a river, and a cluster of small boats. Nearer still: the bear, surrounded by a ring of men. I heard shouting now, and the clash of metal.

  The ring tightened about the bear, and all at once the air above her filled with nets—a pale, soft blossom, bursting and then collapsing upon her. And the running thrum took possession of me, and I was shouting at the top of my lungs. A lone figure came jogging toward me; he called my name and tried to take my arm when at last he drew near. I veered away from him—I had to reach the bear—but the doctor clasped his strong arms about me and said, “Stop, Arthur, stop, my son, stop, just stop, please, stop.”

  PART IV

  LONDON

  CHAPTER 39

  Betrayal

  THEY STRIPPED ME of the knife and my belt and locked me in the unlit storeroom of the Queen Margrete. Soon I heard the sounds of the bear being loaded onto the ship—her roars of pain and rage and perplexity. I beat on the door until my knuckles bled. I begged to be with her, to be
allowed to try to calm her. I called out for the doctor, but he never came.

  “My son,” he had called me.

  What a sham!

  After a while the sounds of the bear subsided, with only an occasional rumble of protest.

  Now we were both of us prisoners.

  I slumped down on the boards. What must she think of what had befallen her? The trap, the men, the noise, the cage, the return to the ship. Did she think that I’d had a hand in it? That I had betrayed her?

  I told myself that I hadn’t, and yet . . . I knew in my heart that until the past few days, I had plotted for her capture, as well.

  And now what would happen to me?

  It must be plain to the captain that I had conspired to let the bear go free. The bear who belonged to the king. So, would they return me to Norway to be tried for treason? Put me ashore on a deserted island? Hang me?

  I waited, listening to the sailors’ voices, to the various squeaks and knocks and clatterings of lading. In a while, after the movement of the ship told me that we were underway, I heard a clank of iron on iron outside the door. A foolish hope bloomed in my chest, but it wasn’t the doctor, nor even Thorvald; it was a sailor I didn’t know. He set down a bedroll and a bucket, lit the lantern that hung from the ceiling, then took his leave, locking the door behind him.

  But later still, as I lay on the bedroll, the doctor came with a bowl of supper.

  I turned my back to him. Some part of me was glad to have him near, but I didn’t want to look at him. I didn’t want to talk to him. I didn’t want to listen to what he had to say.

  He was supposed to care for the bear. Why hadn’t he prevailed upon the captain to let me help with her? And he had allowed me to be imprisoned—just handed me over to the guards.