The Girl Who Speaks Bear

by Sophie Anderson

  “What did you find?” I ask, tingling with anticipation for the story. When Anatoly comes out of the Snow Forest, there’s always a story.

  When I was young, I believed all of Anatoly’s tales, whether they were about wolf packs hunting over moonlit snow or fire dragons leaping from volcanoes. Because his stories came from the forest—like me—they felt like clues to my past.

  Now I know Anatoly’s stories are just stories. Mamochka has told me often enough. But still I like to believe them, in the moments when he tells them and sometimes afterward—in the depths of night, when the branches outside my window shine silver and I can’t sleep for thinking about what secrets the forest holds.

  Anatoly smiles his shy smile, reaches deep into his pocket, and pulls out his map. He smooths the tattered old paper over the low table between us, and I search for the new mark. There’s always a new mark, hidden somewhere among the inky trees, to show where the story begins.

  “Here is the village.” Anatoly points to the neat drawing of the village on the southern edge of the map. “And here is your house.” His finger hovers over my and Mamochka’s house, which is marked by two small hearts inside a square.

  Anatoly always points out all the features on his map, even though I’ve seen it so many times I could draw it from memory. But I don’t mind. I like listening to his gentle voice rumble against the crackling of the fire, and I like watching his callused fingers skate through the sketched forest.

  It also gives me a chance to find the new mark on my own. The mark might be a large feature—like the picture of a crumbling castle that appeared last year to go with a story about a bear who had once been human. Or it might be a small feature—like the claw, hidden in a glade, that sparked a story about how a lone baby girl stood up to a pack of wolves. Anatoly told me that story when I was very young, and I still have the wolf claw he gave me under my pillow. Sometimes, running my finger along it makes me feel brave. But at other times, the sight of the thick, dark hook as long as my thumb makes me pull my blankets tight around me.

  My gaze drifts across the map, north through the forest along a narrow, winding trail. Creatures hide among the trees: wolves and wolverines, badgers and bears, snakes and squirrels. Past the first of Anatoly’s five cabins, the trail disappears, so I follow the Silver Stream instead, its rippled surface dotted with ice floes and leaping fish.

  “The Yaga house has moved again.” I point to a drawing of a house with chicken legs nestled in a pine thicket.

  “Winter has been harsh this year.” Anatoly nods gravely. “The house got so cold its knees splintered. It stood up in the middle of the night and the crack sounded like thunder. I heard it over ten miles away. It ran south, its feet pounding along the riverbank, until it warmed up and settled in this cozy thicket. The Yaga who lives in the house wasn’t happy at all, as she doesn’t like moving closer to the living. You know Yaga prefer dead souls.”

  “Dead souls and houses with chicken legs.” Mamochka folds her arms over her chest and shakes her head. “You fill her mind with nonsense, Anatoly.”

  “There’s truth in all my stories,” Anatoly says quietly. He glances up at me with a look of such sincerity that I want to tell him I believe every tale he’s ever told. Instead, I rise to my feet and open the long wooden box on the mantelpiece. Inside is my favorite ink pen and my own copy of Anatoly’s map. I drew it myself the last time he was here, and although it’s not as neat as his, I’m proud of it. I roll it out on the table and carefully draw the house with chicken legs in its new position.

  Mamochka disappears into the kitchen, still muttering about nonsense. She only believes in things she can see for herself. But she wasn’t always so dismissive of Anatoly’s stories. When I was younger, she used to repeat them to me before bed in her matter-of-fact style. Or she’d sing me the songs of her ancestors, about the power of nature and the healing magic of the forest. But she seems to have decided twelve years old is too old for stories.

  Last time Anatoly visited, after I went to bed, I heard Mamochka tell him she worries that his stories keep me wondering about my past. Anatoly told her I’m a magical bear-child who will always wonder where I came from. Mamochka replied it would be better if my heart was in the village, rather than getting lost in the stories of the forest. At that point I turned over in bed, not wanting to hear any more, and sang myself to sleep.

  I finish drawing the house with chicken legs and lean back over Anatoly’s map, to see what else is new. But my gaze lands on the Blue Mountain and I can’t pull it away. Nestled high in a cliff is a sketch of the bear cave where I was found, with me as a baby inked inside, snuggling into the arms of the Bear Tsarina. Anatoly always refers to the bear who raised me as a tsarina, a queen of the Snow Forest.

  My feet ache with the same restless feeling I had earlier, after I heard the bullfinch speak. Outside, the snow glistens, and an urge to make footprints in it swells inside me.

  “The bear cave.” Anatoly’s voice cuts through my thoughts. He gently touches the map, right next to the cave. “Where your mamochka found the most precious treasure ever discovered in the Snow Forest.”

  Mamochka places a mug of sbiten in front of me and drops a kiss onto my head. She smiles at Anatoly and he smiles back without looking away, and for a moment I feel like the three of us belong together. Like a real family.

  “How long are you staying?” I blurt out, then regret the question, because Anatoly’s face burns bright red all the way to his ears and he doesn’t answer.

  Mamochka leans down and tops up the teapot with hot water from the samovar. Steam rises when she opens the tap in the shining brass urn, the heat in the air disguising Anatoly’s blushing. “What’s that?” she asks, pointing to a tiny triangular mark on the map.

  I peer at the triangle embedded high in the trunk of a tall, slim birch. Inside the triangle is the letter N, with a crown on top. “It’s the new mark!” Excitement rushes through me, washing away the twinge of disappointment I felt at not finding the mark myself. “And it has something to do with the Princess Nastasya.” I recognize the crowned N as her symbol. Anatoly has told me stories about her before, and some of them have hinted that she might be my birth mother. The thought that might be true, and I might learn something about her, gives me a sudden, breathtaking thrill, like skidding, slightly out of control, on ice.

  Anatoly pulls an object wrapped in cloth from his pocket and passes it to me. It’s as big as my palm, is heavy, and feels cold through the cloth.

  Mousetrap pokes his head out of his hole in the corner near the fire and sniffs the air. He’s a fierce and proud hunter and never begs for food, unless it’s freshwater cod brought by Anatoly. But it’s not cod in the parcel.

  Inside is a triangular ice-blue rock, smooth as glass, with a tip and edges as sharp as a knife. Anatoly has made a hole in the wide end and threaded it with a leather cord, so it can be worn as a necklace. The rock trembles in my hand. It feels unnaturally cold, like there’s a snowstorm inside it.

  The corners of Mousetrap’s mouth turn down when he realizes there’s no fish on offer, but perhaps he catches the scent of the story to come, because he edges closer, scoots up the back of my chair, settles onto my shoulder, and stares at Anatoly expectantly.

  I breathe in Mousetrap’s familiar smell of dust and earthy musk and reach up to give him a stroke, but he pushes my finger away. Mousetrap loves sitting on my shoulder, but he doesn’t like being fussed over or petted.

  “Is this an arrowhead?” I ask, holding the rock up to the window so it shimmers with starlight.

  Anatoly nods. “It’s for you. The Princess Nastasya’s last arrow.” His voice cracks a little and he takes another swig of tea.

  “It’s beautiful. Thank you.” I lift the necklace over my head, being careful not to disturb Mousetrap, then turn to show Mamochka.

  “It looks lovely on you.” Mamochka smiles. “But with those sharp edges, it doesn’t seem very safe to wear.” She raises her eyebro
ws at Anatoly and he looks down apologetically.

  “Would you like to hear the arrow’s story?” Anatoly asks.

  “Yes, please.” Goose bumps shiver over my skin. Although I’ve heard stories about the Princess Nastasya before, I’ve not heard one about an arrow. Mousetrap lets out a squeaky yawn, stretches, and curls around my neck.

  “Princesses and arrowheads.” Mamochka tuts as she returns to the kitchen, where she makes a show of putting away the fish and game Anatoly has brought us. But I see her through the doorway, listening. Mamochka might not believe Anatoly’s stories, but she’s not immune to their magic.

  Perhaps Anatoly’s stories are too fantastic to be true, but wrapped up in one of his tales, with the fire crackling in the hearth, and ice glistening on the windows, I can believe that one day I’ll find my own story, and it will shine as brilliantly as a clear night sky.

  “There is truth in my stories,” Anatoly whispers as he passes me a pryaniki. I smile and take a bite of the soft cookie. Then Anatoly begins, as he always does, with “Once upon a time …”

  Once upon a time, a great warrior came to the Snow Forest. Her name was the Princess Nastasya.

  She carried a bow over her shoulder and a quiver of arrows on her back and with them she could shoot the twinkle from a star.

  For many years the Princess Nastasya defended and protected the creatures of the Snow Forest. She drove the water demons from the river, calmed the wood spirits whose howls brought rain, and saved the soul of the Giant Deathless.

  Then one day, she met a fisherman on the shores of the Green Bay. They fell in love and had a beautiful baby daughter.

  But before the baby was one moon old, the Fiery Volcano in the north exploded into flames. Smey, a three-headed fire dragon, erupted into the sky, and Nastasya’s husband, who was near the volcano at the time, became trapped by the furious beast.

  Nastasya burned with rage. She shouldered her bow, held her baby to her breast, and climbed to a cave in the Blue Mountain. There, though it broke her heart to do so, she left her beloved daughter in the care of the only creature she trusted to keep her safe: the Bear Tsarina.

  And at the very top of the mountain, where the ancient peak is stained blue by the sky, Nastasya carved six arrowheads. Made from thick blue ice and hardened with stardust, they were strong and cold enough to cool the anger in a fire dragon’s heart.

  The sun set and the moon rose three times before Nastasya reached the Fiery Volcano and found Smey’s cavern. Nastasya charged in and aimed an arrow at the dragon’s heart, but Smey held her husband too close for her to take the shot.

  Between two heartbeats, Nastasya fired five arrows at Smey’s three heads, blinding five of his eyes. Nastasya smiled and drew back her final arrow, to blind the dragon’s last eye. But Smey opened his great wings and flew from the cavern, still holding Nastasya’s husband. Then Smey roared with anger and dropped him into a swirl of dragon fire.

  Grief tore through Nastasya as she watched her husband disappear into the flames. Her chest crumpled and she struggled to breathe. She released her last arrow, but it missed its target. The arrow clipped Smey’s wing, making him tumble through the sky. And spitting fiery bombs and cinders, he collapsed upon her. There was no escape.

  High above, the last arrow flew on. It sailed over stars, carrying Nastasya’s love and strength. It dipped under the moon, picking up moonbeams and magic, and it landed deep in the bark of a tall, slim birch.

  Tears pooled in Nastasya’s eyes, which shone with thoughts of her orphaned child. But her final breath was filled with hope that one day her daughter would find the last arrow, and then her story would be remembered.

  The next morning, Anatoly is gone. Though I knew he would be, disappointment falls over me like a heavy leather cloak. There’s a note from him on the table, saying the forest called him in the night, and two twigs of goat willow dotted with soft silvery catkins.

  Mamochka shakes her head at the note but smiles at the twigs and tucks one into a buttonhole on her coat. I do the same with mine and we step out into the sharp air to load up a sled with Mamochka’s supplies for the festival.

  Mousetrap scampers around and over me, leaping from my shoulders to my hands to the sled and back again, sniffing all the bottles and jars and scowling at the ones filled with herbs and seeds that whisper and rattle as they move.

  It’s fun watching him, but I can’t stop thinking about Anatoly’s story from last night. I keep going over the details as if looking for clues, and I keep touching my arrowhead necklace, to feel its sharp edges and trembling cold. This morning it feels like there’s more than a snowstorm inside it.

  “You understand it was just a story, don’t you?” Mamochka says, reaching up to straighten the buttons on my coat. She always knows what I’m thinking, and she always fusses with my clothes or my hair when she’s concerned about me.

  “Of course.” I nod, but I can’t help wondering, What if there’s truth in the story, like Anatoly said? What if Nastasya were real, and my birth mother? The thought makes my heart skip and jump like Mousetrap on the sled.

  “Come on.” Mamochka finishes squashing cotton grass into the crates and covers it with furs. “Let’s have a hot drink before we go. I have a surprise for you too.” Her eyes sparkle with excitement, and curiosity rushes through me.

  “Are you coming inside?” I offer my hand to Mousetrap, who is now stalking a fluffy seed head across the top of the crates. His whiskers twitch with annoyance, as if I’ve disturbed an important hunt, but he leaps onto my palm, scrambles up my coat, and squeezes into my collar. I smile at the feel of his tiny body, soft and warm against my neck, and follow Mamochka into the house.

  She opens one of the drawers in her medicine-mixing corner, pulls out a large brown parcel, and passes it to me, beaming.

  I take the parcel and unwrap it, then open out the vast folds of fabric I find inside. It’s a long, dark skirt. I frown at it, because I like wearing my old, comfy trousers, but then I notice colors dancing on the hem.

  “I embroidered it myself.” Mamochka moves a pan of sbiten onto the stove to warm up as I look at the delicately stitched pictures more closely. There’s a forest filled with creatures and a blue mountain rising in the distance. A fiery dragon flies across a night sky and regal bears dance in a crumbling castle overgrown with vines. A house with chicken legs sprints along a riverbank and a pack of wolves hunt beneath a silver full moon.

  “These are scenes from Anatoly’s stories,” I whisper, unable to believe Mamochka sewed this for me.

  “I know how much his stories mean to you. That’s why I made this. But I made it for you to wear today, in the village—the place where you belong, with those who love you.” She looks me in the eye. More than anything, I want to believe she’s right, so I push away thoughts of my own story hidden somewhere in the forest. But I feel my heart stretching.

  Mamochka keeps staring at me, a huge smile on her face and a twinkle in her eye.

  “What is it?” I ask, my brow furrowed.

  “You’ve been chosen to carry Winter!” Mamochka throws her arms around me. I’m distracted by how they barely reach halfway, so it takes awhile for her words to sink in. Every year at the festival, a big straw doll called Winter is burned, to symbolize the end of winter and the coming spring. Carrying Winter to the bonfire is a real honor, usually given to one of the grown-ups who has contributed most to village life over the season.

  “I’m so proud of you.” Mamochka pulls away from me and puts her hand over her heart.

  For a moment I wish Anatoly was here. I wonder if he’d have stayed and come to the festival if he’d known I’d be carrying Winter, wearing a skirt with his stories on. Then I realize what a silly thought that is. Anatoly never comes to the festivals.

  “Go and try your skirt on.” Mamochka nudges me out of the kitchen. “Then we’ll have this drink and get going.”

  I go to my room and change into the skirt and my favorite pair of reinde
er-skin boots. Anatoly made them from the softest, stretchiest leather, so they never pinch or rub. He always gives me a few pairs when he visits, some that fit and bigger ones to grow into. I make sure my arrowhead necklace is tucked safely inside my sweater. And before going back downstairs, I slide the wolf claw Anatoly gave me from beneath my pillow and put it in my pocket. Because even though Winter is only made of straw, I have the feeling I may need some extra strength today.

  Sasha arrives, bouncing with excitement for the festival, and we set off, hauling the loaded sled behind us. Before we reach the bottom of the garden, Mousetrap stirs from his sleep around my neck, launches himself into the snow, and scampers off toward the pines. He rarely comes to the village with me, and like Anatoly, he never comes to the festivals. I lift my collar, trying to warm the cold space he’s left around my neck.

  The noise of traders setting up stalls rattles between the trees, and by the time we arrive at the square, musicians are tuning their instruments, and smoke is rising from steel-drum barbecues.

  As we help Mamochka set up her stall, people fill the square until they’re packed in tight as bees in a hive. I don’t recognize everyone. People have sledded here from distant villages, nestled on other edges of the Snow Forest, to come to the festival.

  Squeals rise from the sledding hill, cheers from the pole-climbing contests, and laughter from the stalls selling food and drink. A snowball whizzes past Sasha’s head and lands at my feet. I look up to the top of the ice fort, where it was thrown from. A mischief of small children are hiding behind the battlements, giggling.

  Little Vanya pokes his head out. “Look how many snowballs we’ve made, Yanka.” He gestures to a toppling pile and smiles proudly. “Will you be on our team for the siege game? We’re defending.”

  “Me and Sasha already signed up to attack.” I squish the snowball back together and throw it to him. “So you’d better save these for the game.”

  “Let’s go sledding.” Sasha punches my arm. I glance over the top of his head to Mamochka.