The Bear is Born
By
Remy Morgeson
I
The sun had just peaked in the autumn sky when the stag lifted its regal head, the hungry animal grazing peacefully in the secluded clearing deep within the northern woods. They had picked up the magnificent beast’s trail earlier this morning at first light, tracking it diligently ever since to reach this moment. The boy could hear his father’s rhythmic breathing from just over his shoulder, the two of them crouching in the tree line at the edge of the forest as they watched the animal feeding. The thing looked so massive to his young eyes, its antlers sweeping up to what seemed to be innumerable points. This was his first hunt after his coming of age over the warm summer months, and the stag was to be his first kill on his way to manhood.
His father’s longbow trembled in his slight hands as he raised the polished wood, struggling to pull back the string and keep hold of the arrow at the same time thanks to his racing nerves. For the large man that knelt just next to him, handling the weapon was almost second nature, but for a boy of only twelve years old, it was proving to be no easy task. He had practiced for hours over the spring and summer out behind the small longhouse where he and his father lived, sending arrow after arrow streaking into the straw targets that the big man had erected and placed out in the fields for him. But that had been by himself and in the calm of sunny days, not in the chill air of the wild woods with his quarry mere yards away from him. His breaths came to him rapidly now, his heart thumping in his chest as he took a shaky aim and a single bead of sweat ran down the side of his face. The young boy stood petrified, his body rigid and his tense fingers locked around the bow like a vice.
What will happen if I miss, he worried. How will I face my father or the other boys back at the village who have already brought down bucks of their own? And what will we do for meat for the coming winter? Please, he urged himself, just don’t miss.
As his thoughts raced, he felt his father’s strong hand fall upon his slim shoulder, the firm touch instantly bringing him back to where he was. The man’s breath was warm on the back of his neck, and the word’s that were said into his ear ever so steadying and reassuring.
“Calm down, Asbjorn,” his father softly whispered to him. “Breathe in, and then exhale slowly, just like you learned back at home. Remember what I’ve told you before and what you’ve practiced out in the fields. See the arrow as it takes flight. Watch it in your mind as it sails through the air to strike the target, and then let it go.”
Asbjorn closed his eyes for an instant after hearing his father’s calming instructions, picturing the large stag that stood just before them. He imagined himself taking a sure aim and then freeing the arrow, seeing it streaking straight towards the majestic creature to pierce through its heart. As soon as his eyes flicked open, they immediately locked with those of the animal, its nostrils flaring as it sniffed at the cool air to just pick up their scents on the breeze. The stag started and turned to run just as Asbjorn released his fingers from the string, the arrow flying directly toward the fleeing beast.
The world around the young boy seemed to slow down and drag in that tense moment. He watched wide-eyed as the arrow flew forth, the feathery fletching causing it to spiral as it cut through the air. It struck home just behind the creature’s right foreleg, the wooden shaft penetrating deep into its muscled flank. A wild spasm and a few faltering steps later and he saw the large stag fall, tumbling headfirst into the dried leaves that were strewn over the forest floor. He could see it moving and heard the beast kicking for only a second after, and then, just like that, the boy’s first hunt was done.
It was just turning dusk as father and son trekked their way back to their campsite that lay at the far edge of the woods, nestled within a small grouping of trees not far from a gurgling stream. Jurgen carried the dead stag over his broad shoulders for his young son, the boy still lacking the strength to heft the weighty animal up for himself. They did not speak a word to one another about the hunt on their way back to camp, the expression on Asbjorn’s face alone enough to tell his father just how elated he was. Truth be told, Jurgen himself beamed with pride at what the young boy had just accomplished today, struggling to maintain his stoic exterior so as not to give away his own feelings.
As they went, the big Northerner glanced back over his shoulder as Asbjorn hurried to keep up, the two moving steadily over the littered forest floor. Even with several hundred hounds slung over his back, the experienced woodsman was able to easily traverse the dense landscape, his long strides carrying him swiftly in and around the thick trees. He deftly made his way through the fallen brush with an agility rarely possessed by a man of his size, stepping over the broken off logs and dead branches that lay in their path.
Such was Jurgen’s gait that his son was having difficulty staying by his side, the boy finding it a challenge to navigate through the scattered debris. He tripped and stumbled more than once through the thick leaves, badly skinning his knee on a fallen branch at one point. But all of that mattered little to Asbjorn at the moment, his spirits running higher now than they ever had before. Jurgen could have sprinted through the dense underbrush and the youth would have found a way to keep up with the racing man, pushing himself over the treacherous terrain to maintain the pace.
At last, the pair reached their campsite that sat in the lap of the secluded grove, the night birds just beginning to come out to sing their sweet song as the sun dipped below the horizon. Asbjorn immediately went to work at building a fire to stave off the encroaching cold, while Jurgen strung up the deer carcass in a nearby tree to keep it off the ground and away from forest scavengers. Once the flames had crackled to life, father and son settled in around the glowing warmth, wrapping themselves in soft furs as they took a late meal of salted venison, roasted nuts, and dried berries.
Jurgen stretched out and relaxed on his bedroll as he ate, lying back to gaze up at the stars that were just beginning to emerge as the sun set. The same could not be said for Asbjorn, however, the boy’s enthusiasm still running high from the day’s events. He consumed his meal with a ravenous vigor as he sat before the popping flames, taking in large mouthfuls of the savory meat and sweet berries, his cheeks puffed out as he chewed. In between bites, he would continuously glance up to where his kill gently swung from the tree branch, unable to remove his eyes from the swaying stag for more than a few moments. And although the boy had just felled the animal only a few hours ago, he could not help but anticipate the next thrilling hunt that was to come, already looking forward to it more than he could ever say.
“You keep eating like that and you’re not going to have anything left for later,” Jurgen suddenly said, Asbjorn’s head snapping around with a piece of half-eaten venison still hanging from his mouth.
The surprised youth looked down at his rations and realized that his father was right, the boy having eaten more than half of what remained, and that little bit had to last him through tomorrow and the morning after that as well. Red-faced, he bit off the chunk of meat that still dangled from his lips, replacing it in his food bag before tying off the leather drawstrings and tucking it away with the rest of his things.
“I’m sorry, father,” Asbjorn meekly responded. “I was just, thinking.”
Jurgen smiled to himself as his son apologized to him, sitting up on his own bedroll to come around and face the boy with a warm expression. The big man tied back his wild blonde hair and scratched at his chin through his thick beard, trying to remember how he had felt so many years ago when his father had done these same things with him.
“Have I ever told you about when my father took me on my first hunt?” he asked Asbjorn in a deep, yet soft, voice.
The boy just loo
ked at him and shook his head no, inching in closer to the fire so as not to miss anything that his father might say. It was a rare thing for Jurgen to talk about himself to his son in a personal way, Asbjorn always hanging on every word of the big man’s stories when the mood took the other to do so.
“I must have been about your age,” Jugen began, “maybe a little bit older. I had been pestering him all summer long and well into the game season to teach me how to shoot, but he always said that he was much too busy tending to the fields and our few goats to be pulled away for very long. But every day I would ask him none the less, and every day he would always give me the same answer. I remember that by the time my mother had finally gotten fed up with it, I was just lucky enough to be able to hold a bow, let alone actually manage hit anything with it. But after several days of nagging, he finally broke down and gave me a lesson, if you can call ten minutes of grumbling about how I wasn’t doing anything right a lesson that is.”
Asbjorn broke out in a broad grin as he listened to his father speak about the days when he was once a boy like himself. He often forgot that the big man had once been young too, the stoic Jurgen hardly ever dropping the shield of his hard exterior, even around his own son. Asbjorn had always been slightly anxious around his father, often feeling like the man was always watching and judging his every move. But hearing Jurgen talk of his youth in such a way somehow revealed another side of the man, one that the boy could just now find himself able to relate to. As Asbjorn listened with raised spirits, Jurgen went on, an enthralled expression splayed across his son’s face.
“So,” the man continued, “after my less than impressive archery display, my father finally resigned himself to take me out on my first hunting trip, not happy about the situation in the least I suppose. I remember that we came to these very woods,” he said, “probably not too far from where we are now. It was so late in the year that everything that hadn’t been brought down yet by the other hunters had pretty much been scared off. We had to camp and trudge through the fallen brush for nearly two days before we caught sight of anything, finally tracking it down to a small clearing in the middle of nowhere. I think it must have been the saddest, spindliest looking little buck I’ve ever seen to this day, with hardly enough meat on its bones to make it worth wasting an arrow on.”
Jurgen just chuckled and shook his head as he looked back on it now, lost in the memory of his younger days so long ago.
“Did you kill it?” Asbjorn asked eagerly. “With your bow I mean?”
“Now be patient, boy,” Jurgen responded, “you’re getting ahead of me.”
Asbjorn quietly settled back in to hear the rest of his father’s tale, the firelight reflecting in his chestnut eyes as Jurgen picked up where he had left off.
“Now,” the big man went on, “as I was saying. My father and I had tracked this scrawny little stag to a clearing that was encircled by tall fir trees. We stayed low in the outlying brush as we carefully inched up, watching this tiny thing grazing on the dry grass. I was so eager that I wanted to just go in and take it straight away, but my father said no, hoping that something better might happen along I imagine. After a while, I finally heard him curse something foul under his breath, knowing that it was probably going to have to be this or nothing at all. I remember that my hands were trembling so much that I could hardly get the arrow on the string when handed be the bow, and the look on his face did absolutely nothing to help improve my confidence.”
Jurgen laughed softly again as he ran his fingers through his long hair, looking up to stare off into the distance for a moment.
“Well, I must have made a noise or something when I pulled back the arrow,” he sighed. “Because when I did, that little stag looked right at me, our eyes locking together for just an instant. He saw me and I saw him, and then everything stopped. So, I took careful aim, yanked the string to my cheek with a shaky hand, and—”
“And you shot it straight the heart!” interjected an over enthusiastic Asbjorn, the boy nearly falling into the fire as he jumped with excitement.
“No,” said Jurgen. “I was so damn nervous that I kept hold of the arrow and let go of the bow by mistake! It snapped back and cracked me right across the bridge of the nose, blood everywhere!”
The big man burst out in raucous laughter at his own story, almost tipping backward as the memory of it all came flooding back to him. Asbjorn could only stare at his father with a baffled look on his face, not quite sure how he should react to the man’s glee. Gradually, his own expression spread into a wide smile, until both father and son were soon doubled over in amusement.
“So that’s how you got that scar,” Asbjorn said in between gasping breaths. “I always thought that it was from fighting bandits or raiders or something.”
“Nope,” Jurgen laughed even louder. “It hit me right in the face!”
“What happened after that?” asked a panting Asbjorn.
“Well we didn’t get the stag that’s for damn sure,” answered Jurgen. “We had to eat stale potatoes and the foulest tasting mutton I’ve ever had all winter long. My mother was so angry that she made him sleep out with the goats for a week. I remember that he wouldn’t even let me touch his bow again until next spring. It was miserable.”
Asbjorn continued to laugh along with his father after seeing the gentle mirth the big man displayed, their eyes watering as they shared in the moment of levity. Gradually, Jurgen’s laughter died away as he looked into the wavering flames, a hint of melancholy playing over his weathered face.
“I haven’t thought about my father like that for years now,” he said. “He was never really someone to endear himself to anybody for very long. I know that when I was a boy, I always felt like I was more of an afterthought to him rather than anything else, never really able to connect or see eye to eye with the man. I don’t think I ever really meant all that much to him, the feeling becoming mutual after a while.”
Jurgen exhaled slowly as he stirred up the embers of the fire with a broken-off branch, throwing the long stick into the flames before turning towards Asbjorn.
“You know I’m very proud of what you did today, my son,” he said. “You’ll grow to be a fine man one day, I’m sure of it.”
Jurgen looked at his young son with a warmth and respect in his eyes that the boy had never seen before, Asbjorn a little uncertain of what he should say or do next. He was about to speak when a horrific sound boomed out in the dark, rolling over the forest to shake the trees like a distant thunder. Jurgen and Asbjorn’s hearts both nearly came up to their throats when the resounding roar hit their ears, the blood in their veins running cold for a moment as the echo slowly faded away.
“What was that?” Asbjorn asked as he sprung up to his feet, his voice no more than a shivering whisper.
“Just a bear,” answered Jurgen, “that’s all. No need to be worried, though, it won’t come close to the fire. Now sit back down.”
Asbjorn slowly knelt back to the ground next to the jumping flames, his wide eyes still gazing out into the blackness. He had heard many a bear call before back on the outskirts of their village of Brekka as the colder seasons would set in, even seeing a few of the animals from a distance as they fished along the riverbanks for food. But never had the boy heard such a savage call that had split the night just a few seconds ago, the fearsome sound seeming to carry on the wind itself. Even now, he thought that he could still hear it reverberating over the wooded countryside, almost darkening the moonlight that shown through the autumn clouds above. As Asbjorn tried to once more settle in, he drew closer to the glowing fire, anxiously scanning the tree line.
Jurgen could easily sense the restlessness that was coming off the boy, the apprehension clearly visible on the lad’s face. In truth, Jurgen had concerns of his own after hearing the blasting call, pulling his large hunting pack over to him and from within its leather lining bringing out his axe. The weapon had been presented to him by the village smiths years ago, a gift for hav
ing rallied the men during the bloodiest bandit raid the people there had ever seen, the same raid that had tragically claimed the life of Asbjorn’s mother. The young boy had rarely seen his father’s axe over the many years since the other had received it, perhaps only viewing it three or four times that he could even remember. But every time he laid his eyes on it, he found himself captivated by the great blade, almost as if the steel itself whispered his name. His gaze would follow down the axe’s broad, sweeping head, tracing over the intricate etchings that adorned the polished metal, at last coming to a stop at the blunt hammerhead on the back end. The weapon was a truly deadly thing, a superb piece of forged northern craftsmanship.
“We’ll get a good night’s sleep,” said Jurgen, leaning back on his pack and laying the axe across his lap. “And then head back home in the morning. It’s best to show caution with bears about.”
“But, father,” protested Asbjorn, “we were supposed to go back out tomorrow. Didn’t you just say it wouldn’t come near the fire, and you do have your axe? Besides, it’ll probably be gone by dawn, right?”
“I said no, Asbjorn,” Jurgen sternly responded to cut off his son. “There are far worse things than just earthly animals in the deep parts of the north woods, and sometimes they’re not content to stay there, venturing out to drag whoever they can find back into the shadows with them. No,” he said again, “we head back tomorrow, now get some sleep.”
Without saying another word, Asbjorn crawled back over to his bedroll, wrapping himself in another heavy fur to hunker down and keep warm through the chill night. He wanted to argue against his father’s decision further but part of him knew that the big man was right, not being able to protest what the elder had said. It was better for the two of them to head home in the morning after hearing that terrible cry, showing caution and returning to the great woods to come and hunt another day. But that was only a small part, easily lost in the fervor of a young boy who had just experienced his first real taste of manhood. Deep down, Asbjorn wanted nothing more than to hunt again, to stalk his prey through the dense forests, and then to finally bring it down in the grand kill that was to follow. Gradually, the boy drifted off where he lay curled up beneath the stars, dreaming of being on the trail of a wild stag as a wave of sleep overtook him.
The Bear is Born Page 1