In the Shadow of the Bear

by David Randall

  “More soldiers,” said Clovermead stupidly. She could barely comprehend their existence. “Why are they here? Daddy, I don’t know what to do.”

  “Clo, we have to . . .” But Clovermead never heard what they had to do. Unheedingly a Yellowjacket rode at them on a pearly stallion that seemed twice Clovermead’s height, and Waxmelt jumped desperately hard to one side, pulling Clovermead after him. As they fell, his hands came loose from her shoulders. Clovermead landed on a rock that bit sharp into her tooth-scarred arm. She felt herself roll, screamed, and blacked out.

  When Clovermead came back to consciousness and opened her eyes, she saw she was in a shallow gully, three feet high at most. She could see nothing beyond its walls. She tried to move, tried to speak, but she could not.

  She heard pounding hooves. Swords were clashing. The drums of the Mayor’s army sounded and the soldiers of Low Branding began to advance.

  “I see the innkeeper,” she heard Sorrel say from on high. “She must have gotten him out of the prison cages. Quick, we must get him off the ground. I will look for Clovermead. She must be near here.”

  “Stay where you are,” said a strange, brusque voice. “I’ll get the man, but there’s no time for wild-goose chases. They’ll break through our rear guard in a minute.” Clovermead heard the man jump from horseback to the ground and come closer. “Got him,” the man grunted. “Light enough.” His footsteps, heavier this time, retreated.

  “Give me one minute, Lieutenant,” Sorrel begged. “Lady Cindertallow will want her inside the walls. Dear Lady, Clovermead is—”

  “Shut up, Tansyard. We found you in this shambles and we found the innkeeper. That’s not bad for a raid. Sweet Lady, here come their cavalry.” Clovermead heard thumps, Sorrel yelling unintelligibly, and then rapidly diminishing hoofbeats. At least Father’s safe, she thought.

  And she also thought, They left me behind. They left me alone in the dark. She knew it wasn’t fair to think that way, but They left me behind, they left me alone still ran through her head as she descended once more into blackness.

  When she woke again, there was still nothing but the gully walls around her. She hurt. She was bruised all over. Her upper jaw ached. This time she had the strength to move. She put her elbows underneath her and lifted her head.

  She was still among the prison carts. Thirty feet away Lucifer Snuff strode among a phalanx of bear-priests, raging through the mangled bodies of their dead fellows and spitting curses. Despite his fury, his gaze flicked carefully over every inch of ground. He was coming closer.

  Clovermead fell back into the gully. She reached for the tooth—and couldn’t find it. Where was it? She scrabbled in the dirt around her, but it was gone. Hot tears burned down her cheeks. She was alone and weak again, all the power of the bear tooth gone. Part of her was relieved that the tooth was gone, but mostly she wanted it in her hands again. She would never let it go if ever it came back into her hands.

  “Kill Count Linden,” she heard Snuff say to a bear-priest by his side. He was very near. “The bears are still restless. The Count has spirit. His blood will make strong shackles.” The bear-priest muttered obedience and pattered away. Snuff came to the gully itself. Clovermead saw his eyes rake the darkness, stop at her still form—and widen in delight and astonishment as he recognized her.

  “Blood and vengeance,” said Snuff, grinning. He knelt by her side and felt for her pulse. He saw her blink. “Clovermead Wickward herself, and she’s among the living. I almost didn’t recognize you with your hair cropped—hah, and you’ve stained yourself dark. Somehow I knew you were behind this mess.” He laughed. “It’s been a good night after all. We lost the thief, but we got the girl. Well worth the trade.”

  Then he kicked her in the head.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Stalking Dreams

  Clovermead was pursuing a fat doe over the mountains. She was a golden cub once more, and salt breezes riffled through her golden fur. She smelled the doe’s rich musk of sweat and fear, growled hungrily, and ran all the faster. This time she would not let the doe escape. This time she would seize and bite.

  You are a fine cub, little daughter, said Lord Ursus. He loped beside Clovermead with easy power. All children are recalcitrant when they first teethe. I know that as well as anyone. I am gentle to my own. The ground rumbled at Lord Ursus’ laugh. But never too gentle. The sky-crone is a nursemaid. I train hunters.

  I hunted Snuff, said Clovermead. I tracked his scent. He defeated me once, but I’ll have my revenge. I’ll find him and I’ll leap on him and I’ll tear him to bits, even if he hasn’t killed Daddy yet. I want to rip his lungs out and watch him choke to death. She roared out her pain and her anguish and her rage for the bear-priest’s blood.

  You may have him, said Lord Ursus with negligent grace. He should have captured you much earlier. He has proved blunt toothed, fit to be prey.

  Thank you, my Lord, said Clovermead. She ducked her head in grateful submission. How can you be with me? I lost the tooth.

  I am with you still and always, said Lord Ursus, grinning. Stop, he commanded. Clovermead reluctantly tore herself from the doe’s scent. Look. This foul hole is the sky-crone’s. This is her breeding ground of weakness.

  They stood on a high, rocky ledge and looked down into a deep valley. Brine-laden sea mist at the north end of the valley crept over a shallow ridge and trickled southward. The dissipating gray film curled around hazy pines and larches and melted into the white snow on the mountain slopes. Above, the moon bobbed comfortably in a soft gray sea of fog.

  At valley bottom a stream coiled toward the northern ridge, then disappeared through a crack in the rock that Clovermead imagined led to an icy underwater grotto where seals and walruses disported themselves in the dark boundary of river and sea. Clovermead traced the course of the river upstream, past a riverbed of ice and granite boulders to a perfect circle of white marble walls that girdled the stream’s source. The slim walls held back seven-foot-high drifts of snow. Within the walls two long, low cloisters bracketed the stream banks. On their roofs women in white robes stood guard, swept snow, and prayed to Our Lady. Above the twin cloisters lay the stream’s source, quiet and serene. It was a perfectly circular mountain pool whose unblemished icy surface was tinged the lightest blue. At the south end of the pool stood a small crescent temple and a craggy altar hewn from a single block of lapis lazuli, where Clovermead saw a small flame flickering. Faintly she smelled cedar incense burning in the temple.

  This is Snowchapel, she said, full of wonder. There’s the Blue Stone, there’s the Blue Pool, and there’s the White Temple. It’s all the way the pilgrims describe it.

  You believe pilgrims, child? Lord Ursus asked scornfully. Those wanderers hallucinate. I saw them come this way year after year. They arrived from north and south, from Scrimshaw Harbor and Timothy Vale, peering at the water and peering at the sky. I sniffed at the moon and I smelled nothing. I lapped at the water and all I tasted was fish. The nuns chased me from the Scrying Pool and they yelled—I didn’t know what, but harsh words. I was hungry, but the Pool wasn’t for me. I knew they were weak, but they made me run.

  You ran? Clovermead could hardly imagine it.

  Lord Ursus grinned. His teeth snapped at the mist and rent its billows. I was not yet purified. I had not yet realized who I was. I was as weak as all my servants are before I have torn the weakness from them. I fled from the human women and I learned to hate them. They were so feeble behind their iron edges. And why had they chased me away? For a stupid, meaningless dream. For the dead moon. I know she is dead—that thing in the sky is a bone, a puny echo of light, a rock hurtling in the night. It is a mirage without smell, without taste, without texture, without odor, and silent. How stupid you humans are, to worship a nothing! I swore to punish you for your imbecility. I would make you worship Me. I would be the new God, a divinity you could feel in every inch of flesh and bone. You would scream and know I was your Lord. I would master all your sen
ses, but pain most of all. I made an oath that I would hunt you all down, every one. I swore never to eat honey or fruit or nuts again. Only meat. Laughter boomed through the valley and needles fell off of the pines. I started by hunting pilgrims. I stalked them as they came to Snowchapel. I learned to love their scent of fear, to hunger for the taste of their flesh. I took them one by one, until I realized there were too many of you to kill in a lifetime. So I began to hunt for disciples to aid me in my hunt. Together my disciples and I will fulfil my promise, little cub.

  Clovermead whimpered uneasily and she felt less certain of her strength. Her fur stood on edge and she smelled her own fear.

  I will tear the human fear from you, Goldenhair. You will be a bear as I am.

  I want to be a bear, but it’s terribly hard, my Lord, said Clovermead. I can’t stop being scared and human. I don’t know how to get rid of the foolish chatterbox of a girl in me. My Lord, help me. Tell me what I have to do.

  You must become one of my disciples, said Lord Ursus. They do not fear. Others fear them. They hunt. They kill. That withered old moon-prune is my prey. I tore off her arm and ate it; I have her scent. She runs, Clovermead, but she can’t escape me. I’ll devour her all. Soon. There’ll be no moon then, only darkness and my reign. Then a few will hunt with me and many will be hunted. You can hunt, if you want.

  I thought you said Our Lady didn’t exist, said Clovermead.

  Lord Ursus growled uneasily. She won’t. He wheeled away from the view of Snowchapel. He pawed at the snow and Clovermead knew the chase had started again. No more questions. It is time for you to hunt yourself. Pursue the little girl, the coward, the prattler of moon-hopes and moon-blessings. Run her down. Leap for her. Kill her as she screams and tear out her heart. Do it now!

  I will, said Clovermead. She surged forward.

  She chased the doe, who now was Clovermead herself, chased the fearful idiot innkeeper’s daughter. Under the eyeless socket of the moon she ran over the white mountain slopes with Lord Ursus at her side. Our Lady was not there. Our Lady was gone, if she had ever been there. Clovermead knew now that the moon had never been meant to do more than light up the darkness, illumine Lord Ursus’ sky-large sable coat.

  The girl within the cub dwindled in her massive flesh and Clovermead felt a surge of strength as her humanity finally fled from her and into the racing doe. Now Clovermead was simply a killer. There would be no turning back, no regrets, no fears, once she had disposed of the little girl in the doe. Then she would serve Lord Ursus with a loving heart and rend flesh as he desired. She would live a life of noble action and devotion. She would eat and drink her fill.

  Clovermead had almost caught sight of her prey. The doe was winded and Clovermead put on a burst of speed. Her legs pounded the snow, and Lord Ursus encouraged her forward with his warm breath, by his prickling, mocking, welcoming laughter, through the example of his terrible hunger. Clovermead would catch the girl-doe soon, achingly soon. She longed to be done and to sink her teeth into the puling child’s flesh.

  Clovermead saw the doe. She could feel the Wickward chit’s flesh between her teeth. Her heart pounded, the night was a stink of fear and hope and ravening hunger, and she leapt—

  NO! Waxmelt shouted, and flung himself between her and her prey. Clovermead screamed and tried to turn in midair, but her huge bear body smashed into him, her claws dug into his arms and stomach, her teeth bit into his face. She screamed and tried to get off him, but she was achingly hungry and he was a small, weak rabbit of a man and her claws and teeth ravaged the helpless body of Waxmelt Wickward. I’m here to save you, she tried to say, but all that came out was a roar. I have to rescue you from Snuff, she whispered, but it was a growl as she bit. This is all for you, she screamed as she broke his neck.

  I’ve saved my daughter, said Waxmelt, smiling as he died.

  I want to wake up, said Clovermead. Tears trickled down her fur as she clawed at the snow. This is just a dream. Stop it now. Dear Lady, take me away from here.

  Lord Ursus was behind her again. The moon had set and the land was dark. She heard his breathing and his ancient, corrupt laughter.

  Sweet Lady, save me! he jeered. She can’t, little cub. You will become a bear and you will have no father. It has been prophesied. This is a vision, not a dream.

  I don’t believe you, said Clovermead, sobbing. Her tears melted her fur. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.

  Fool! Your mind is as weak as your body. Brat, behold the past. Lord Ursus came closer, swallowed all the sky, and now Clovermead saw around his shoulders a necklace of human finger bones. Some were thick, some delicate, some long, some short, but all had been stripped clean of flesh. Lord Ursus had gnawed on the bones themselves.

  Trophies of my prey, Lord Ursus said. Behold the present. One giant claw reached out to stroke Clovermead, to rasp and cut through her fur, to touch her bear tooth. Clovermead looked down and saw that the tooth was in her hand once more, come back to her, and had turned into a bleeding finger, fresh torn from a little girl’s hand. It was Clovermead’s own finger.

  Behold the future, Lord Ursus cried out triumphantly. He knelt over Waxmelt’s corpse and bent down to chew his flesh.

  Clovermead turned and leapt at him. Her claws were full out and her teeth were bared in a rictus of rage. She howled and felt no fear, and Lord Ursus laughed. He struck Clovermead’s head with a single flick of his gigantic paw and batted her into midair—

  And Clovermead woke in the absolute darkness of a prison cart.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Mayor’s Interrogation

  Clovermead’s head stung horribly and she ached all over with bruises. She lay unchained on what felt like dirty straw, her tattered clothes covered by a thin blanket. She slid her swollen hands along her skin and felt for open wounds.

  There were none. “My captor has saved his unspeakable vengeance for later and left my bones intact,” Clovermead told herself. “Hah, I can speak. It hurts, though.” Her throat was dry and itchy. Her upper jaw was on fire. She tried to swallow, and her swollen tongue brushed painfully against her teeth. An echo of a growl hummed inside her.

  “My tooth!” said Clovermead. She clutched at her neck, hoping against hope that she would find it there after all. But it was gone. Lord Ursus was gone. She was weak and helpless and alone. She wept tears of anger and sorrow.

  A colder breeze sighed through the darkness and Clovermead shivered violently. She tried to grow fur, but she could not. Clovermead forced her bruised body to move. She pawed through slats and straw for something to keep her warm, but there was nothing.

  Clovermead gasped and reached to touch her neck again. Her brooch was also gone. She wept a few hot tears. “Ursus tear you, Snuff! Couldn’t you leave me anything of Daddy’s? Oh, pardon me, Cousin Lucifer, I’m sure you thought these torn clothes and these fine accommodations were a sufficient keepsake.” Clovermead furiously wiped her cheeks dry. “The Wickward Suite has been passed down from father to daughter. Not literally, I suppose: After Boulderbash tore out those bars, that cart wouldn’t make a good prison anymore.” She felt the sides of her cell. All the bars were there. “How intelligent I was to effect this trade and reduce the difficulties of dungeon bookkeeping for my hosts. I wouldn’t want to cause them any trouble about the counting of prisoners.”

  Clovermead explored her cell. Her head bent when she stood up. She was halfway comfortable when she stretched diagonally on the straw, though a grown man would have been bent double. She found a cup of musty water, a plate with a slice of stale bread, and a stinking pot for her eliminations. She shoved the pot to the far end of the cage and wolfed down the bread and water. Then she waited for something to happen.

  That something took its time arriving. Dimly she heard oxen low and horses neigh, and once or twice the whisper of human voices, but the curtains around the cart muffled almost all sound. Clovermead formulated endless escape plans in her head—she would be miles from the camp before the bear-prie
sts realized she had filched the key and unlocked the cart! She fantasized of rescue by Sorrel, by Waxmelt, by the Queen of Queensmart in all her martial glory. She escaped, she was rescued, she escaped, she was rescued, and Clovermead dreamed of how Waxmelt and Sorrel would come together on the back of a roc to lift her prison into the blue, blue sky.

  She slept, she woke, and she slept again. Clovermead tried to exercise, but it seemed futile. She shouted until she became too thirsty to speak. She wanted her bear tooth. The tooth would have given her the power to escape. Now she was just prey. She was nothing without the tooth, nothing at all. Clovermead’s stomach began to ache.

  She would die in the dark. All her bravado had been useless. She was a fool, she was weak, all she had ever done had come to nothing. She wanted to live so much. Clovermead cried, bawled, sniveled. She was sorry for herself and she was afraid.

  Much later, when at last she had run out of tears and her cheeks had dried, the curtain was flung open. Clovermead gasped and shut her eyes against the reflected sunlight as it boiled into her cell. She tried to stand, but her legs wobbled so badly that she had to support herself against the bars of the back wall. She opened her eyes a crack and squinted through the glare at two indistinct shapes that she guessed were bear-priests.

  The first bear-priest unlocked the door to the cage while the second stood behind him with a drawn sword. “Come out,” the first bear-priest commanded. Clovermead wanted to curl into a ball—but no, she wouldn’t let them know how scared she was. She hobbled forward and tried to hop down to the ground, but she was too weak. The bear-priest cursed and jerked her down. She fell sprawling to the earth. Here the sun itself beat down on her, and she closed her eyes again against its harsh glow. She sat for a minute, waiting to be dragged or hit, but she was left in peace. Finally she looked down and opened her eyelids the slightest bit. There was dead grass and small twigs and cold earth beneath her. The ground was clear of snow. Gradually her eyes adjusted themselves to color, shape, and distance. She felt more hope, more courage in the light. After another minute she looked up.