The Girl Who Speaks Bear

by Sophie Anderson

  My nose wrinkles at the thought of Mamochka smearing my legs with earthworm juice.

  “I don’t know what else to do.” Mamochka’s eyes fill with tears and fear creeps through me. Mamochka doesn’t look like herself anymore. She isn’t strong and unstoppable. She looks like a branch weighed down by too much snow. I feel my own eyes welling up.

  “Oh, look at us, on the brink of tears.” Mamochka flaps her hands in front of her face. “There’s no need. I hear the doctors in the hospital can cure things herbs can’t. They have special equipment, clever machines. Sasha will be here soon and—”

  “Sasha?” My eyes widen in panic. “Why is he coming? Does he know about my legs?” Sasha is the only person who makes me feel like I fit into village life. If he sees me with bear legs, that’s bound to change. I won’t be Yanka the Bear because I’m big and strong. I’ll be Yanka the Bear because I fell off an ice fort and grew bear legs. No one, not even Sasha, could ignore that.

  “No one else has seen or knows about your legs,” Mamochka says gently. “Not that it would matter if they did. The villagers care for you. Sasha came to ask after you at first light. I told him you were still sleeping and that I wanted to take you to the hospital, so he’s gone to arrange transportation. The Great River won’t have thawed enough for boats to cross yet, but maybe we could travel in one of those old biplanes that occasionally flies over the river.”

  The fear creeping through me bursts into a run. We’ve never left the village, never needed anything the forest couldn’t provide. I’m scared—of what’s happening to me, and of people seeing me like this, and of traveling to be poked and prodded by strange doctors far away. But before my thoughts can form into words, there’s a knock at the back door and Mamochka jumps to her feet. “That’ll be Sasha.”

  “Don’t let him in!” I reach out to stop her rushing off. “I don’t want him to see me like this.”

  “All right.” Mamochka squeezes my hand before disappearing down the stairs. I hear her talking to Sasha, then the back door closes. “A plane will take us tomorrow morning,” she shouts up the stairs. “They’re sending a special one that can land on the river in melt.” Mamochka pauses, as if waiting for me to respond, but too many fears are stuck in my throat and the thought of leaving is tearing me apart.

  The day passes in a blur. Mamochka brings up a breakfast I don’t eat and endless cups of heather tea I don’t drink. Though she said her remedies weren’t working, she still covers my legs with so many different herbs that I end up smelling like her medicine-mixing corner. She checks my pulse and temperature over and over and keeps telling me I’m going to be fine. But her too-wide smile and too-busy hands give away her worries.

  I stare out the window, fiddling with my arrowhead necklace. I can’t stop thinking about Anatoly’s tales, and my own story wavering beyond my reach. These legs feel like more than something that needs to be cured. They feel like a clue to my past.

  I want to talk to Mamochka, to tell her how I feel, but she’s cooking food and packing clothes for the trip tomorrow, rearranging things that don’t need tidying, and dusting things that don’t need cleaning.

  Finally, when the sun sets, throwing long shadows across the garden, Mamochka stops bustling around and sits in the armchair beside my bed, sipping valerian root tea.

  “Do you remember the story of the Lime Tree’s curse?” I ask.

  Mamochka frowns and shakes her head.

  “Anatoly told it to us a few years ago,” I press, willing her to remember. “It was about an enchanted tree, and a woodsman and his family who were cursed to be bears. I’ve been thinking about it all day and I’d love to hear it again.”

  “I’m not sure now is the time for one of Anatoly’s stories.” Mamochka sighs.

  “But don’t you think it’s a strange coincidence? How that story was about people turning into bears and now my legs have become bear legs?” I look out the window, to the chattering pines at the bottom of the garden. “Maybe the answer to what’s happening to me lies in the forest …” I whisper the suggestion, but it reverberates around the room like a shout.

  “Your legs are not bear legs,” Mamochka says firmly. “You’re just injured in an unusual way. Falling from the fort must have triggered some kind of imbalance. I’m sure the doctors in the hospital will know how to treat you.”

  “How can you be sure?” My voice rises. I pull back the blankets and point at my feet. “Look at them. They’re bear feet! They must have something to do with where I came from—the bear cave and the forest.”

  Mamochka’s teacup wobbles in her hand. “Growing bear legs doesn’t make sense. It’s impossible. I don’t know what this is, but it isn’t bear legs, and there are no answers in the forest. There’s only snow and ice, teeth and claws, and a million other dangers. I love you. I need to keep you safe. And that means dealing with this in the most sensible, rational way. We need to go to the hospital—not wander around the forest, chasing the stories of an old fool.”

  “Anatoly is not an old fool!” I yell. “Why do you refuse to believe his stories? Even now, when I have claws.”

  “Thickened toenails,” Mamochka corrects, covering up my feet. “I’m sorry.” She fusses with my blankets and blushes. “I shouldn’t have called Anatoly an old fool. I care for him, and I like his stories. But they’re only fanciful tales to fire the imagination. It’s important to stay rooted in reality. Illnesses and injuries are things that need treatment with medicines, not stories.” Mamochka cups my face in her hands and kisses my cheeks. “We should get some sleep. It’s going to be a busy day tomorrow.”

  I open my mouth to argue with Mamochka. But I can’t. She looks so small and tired and far away. I feel like there’s an ocean between us, and my words wouldn’t reach across it.

  I lie in bed after Mamochka has gone, watching the last rays of sunlight fade and the moon rise over the treetops. Stories of the forest spin through my mind, especially the story of the Lime Tree’s curse. I give up trying to sleep, and sit up.

  Mousetrap emerges from a gap between the floorboards. He shakes the dust from his coat and sweeps a tuft of mouse fur from his nose. Then he scampers up into my lap and stares at me, his whiskers twitching expectantly.

  “Do you remember the story of the Lime Tree’s curse?” I ask.

  Mousetrap shakes his head. Or at least I imagine he does.

  “Then I’ll tell it to you.” I kick off my blankets and wiggle my toes. The long, dark claws on the end of my feet spread out … and right now, alone with Mousetrap in the moonlight, having bear legs doesn’t feel so strange.

  Mousetrap curls up and rests his chin on his rump, and I begin the story, as Anatoly would, with “Once upon a time …”

  Once upon a time, a woodsman found the soul of the forest. His axe fell from his hands and his eyes opened wide as he gazed at the tree that stood there. It was tall as the sky and wide as the sunrise, and it sang and danced with the wind.

  From its branches grew birds, from its seeds sprouted streams, and from its leaves lifted lyrical poems.

  With trembling fingers, the woodsman picked up his axe. One branch, he thought. I’ll take one branch of this enchanted tree and carve my son a cot to give him sweet dreams.

  But when the woodsman lifted his axe, the tree spoke in a voice of rustling leaves. “Don’t cut me,” said the tree, “and I’ll give you a wish.”

  The woodsman’s brow furrowed. He had everything he needed: freedom, food and shelter, the beauty and stories of the forest, and the love of his wife and son. Finally, an idea shone in his eyes.

  “I wish for my family to always be healthy and strong.”

  The tree shivered, and seeds rained into the woodman’s hands. “Plant these around your home, and fruits and herbs will grow to keep your family strong.”

  The woodsman thanked the tree and raced home to plant the seeds. A garden bloomed, so full of health-giving foods that the woodsman’s family would always be strong. The woodsm
an glowed with satisfaction, but he also started to wonder. What else could he ask of the tree?

  Wants crowded the woodsman’s mind, and desires ached in his chest. Before one moon had passed, he stood before the tree once more.

  “Tree,” said the woodsman, “I’m pleased my family is strong and healthy, but I’m poor. I wish for riches to give my son a bright future.”

  The tree swayed, and berries fell that hardened on the ground into luminous jewels. The woodsman rushed to gather the treasure and flew home feeling light as air. But after he stored the jewels, he yearned for something more. Before another moon passed, he was back at the tree.

  “Tree,” said the woodsman, “my family and I live in a small cabin. I wish we had a bigger home.”

  The tree shook, and a golden nut dropped. “Plant this and a castle will grow.”

  The woodsman’s heart leaped. He beamed as he found a clearing in the forest, planted the nut, and then watched a castle rise from the earth, with rainbow walls and a shining golden domed roof. Delight bubbled in the woodsman, but still he itched for more. So he went back once again.

  “Tree,” said the woodsman, “my child is but the child of a woodsman. I wish to be a tsar, and my wife a tsarina, then our child would be respected and revered.”

  The tree shook its leaves and sighed. “Go home and be content.”

  But greed clawed inside the woodsman like a hungry wildcat, and his hands twitched upon his axe. “Give me what I ask, or I’ll chop you down.”

  But the tree only turned to the sky and sang.

  Consumed by greed, the woodsman roared in anger and chop …

  … chop

  … CHOPPED down a branch.

  And the tree cried out in pain.

  The woodsman froze, but it was too late. Tears of sap dripped onto the woodsman, cursing him forever. He ran home, filled with remorse, and held his family close.

  And the tears of sap upon the woodsman touched his family too.

  The next morning, the sun shone on the castle, and the woodsman and his wife woke with heavy heads—for he was a bear, and she was a bear, and their son was a fluffy bear cub.

  Many moons passed before the woodsman and his wife grew accustomed to their new lives, but when they did, they found they were happy. They had freedom, food and shelter, beauty, stories, and love, and as the Bear Tsar and the Bear Tsarina, they were respected and revered by all the creatures of the Snow Forest.

  Memories of their human lives faded, and their souls became the souls of bears. But their cub kept the soul of a human and often wished to be part of the human world once again. And so a battle began between a wish and a curse, one that goes on and on to this day.

  I finish the story, look down at Mousetrap, and bristle with annoyance, because instead of listening to me, he’s fast asleep. His head has fallen back, and a tiny thread of drool hanging from his mouth wobbles as he snores.

  A breeze blows through the still-open window and washes away my irritation. I imagine leaving the house and breathing in great lungfuls of the cold night air, walking across the sparkling snow and slipping into the shadows of the forest. I imagine finding my story there: one that explains where I came from and what’s happening to me now.

  The thought stirs a deep longing inside me, but I push it away. Because it would be wrong to leave Mamochka. And it would be dangerous to go into the forest, alone, at night. But the idea is already growing, shivering in the air like an electrical storm.

  A bullfinch lands on a branch at the bottom of the garden and snow cascades to the ground. He ruffles his feathers and stares straight at me, and I wonder if he’s the same bullfinch who has spoken to me.

  “Yanka!” he calls, as if in answer to my thought. “Yanka the Bear!” He flutters up to my window and perches on the sill. “Come into the forest?” His head tilts in a question.

  The urge to go outside is overwhelming, but I force my head to shake. “I can’t leave Mamochka. I shouldn’t,” I whisper. “Please be quiet. Don’t say anything else.”

  “Would you like me to silence him?” A small but mighty voice sounds in my ear. I whip my head around and nearly knock Mousetrap off my shoulder. I hadn’t felt him climbing up there. I stare into his shining black eyes, my mind whirling in confusion.

  “What did you say?”

  “Would you like me to silence the bird?” Mousetrap repeats slowly, running his tongue over his tiny pointed teeth.

  “No!” I exclaim, horrified by the suggestion.

  Mousetrap slouches with disappointment. “Let me know if you change your mind.” He sprints down my arm, leaps off the bed, and disappears into a gap between two floorboards. I stare after him. Mousetrap talks too? He made a series of squeaks and squeals, but I understood every word.

  The bullfinch flutters away and I rub my eyes as if I’ve just woken. The moon shines high over the Snow Forest, turning everything silvery blue. The trees reach up to the stars, and secrets whisper between their branches. The bullfinch has stopped calling, but something else is drawing me toward the forest. Something far more powerful: answers to who I am and what’s happening to me. I can’t resist anymore.

  My mind buzzes with plans and ideas. I have a copy of Anatoly’s map. I could use it to find my way in the forest, to explore the places mentioned in his stories, and to look for clues to my past. I could take some food with me, and shelter in Anatoly’s cabins when I need to rest. Anatoly has five cabins, scattered throughout the Snow Forest, and they’re all labeled on my map.

  Another gust of wind comes and ruffles the fur on my feet, and I can’t wait any longer. I have to go. I lower my feet to the floor and tiny vibrations run into my swollen soles. It’s Mousetrap, pattering beneath the floorboards. I can feel where he is, and something else too … the trembling of a mouse or a vole hiding from him. It’s incredible, like having another sense, and I wonder what it will be like to walk over snow.

  I stand and wobble across the bedroom, still not used to the feel of my legs, slip through the door, and emerge onto the landing, holding my breath. I’m not worried Mamochka will wake; she looked exhausted when she went to bed, and she always sleeps deeply after valerian root tea. But I still tremble with the thought of getting caught. If I don’t reach the forest now, disappointment will crush me.

  The size of my feet and the strangeness of my legs make the stairs a challenge. I end up sitting and half sliding, half bumping down them, like I used to do when I was little. At the bottom, I lift my coat off the peg by the front door and shuffle through the living room, pausing to collect my copy of Anatoly’s map from the box on the mantelpiece.

  All the food Mamochka cooked today is laid out on a marble slab in the kitchen. I slide a couple of piroshki pastries stuffed with cabbage and egg into my pocket and add a handful of dried apricots.

  Then I lift a pencil and piece of paper from Mamochka’s medicine-mixing corner and write her a note:

  Dear Mamochka,

  I can’t go to the hospital. I’m sorry. I need to find more than a cure for these legs. I need to understand why they have grown, and how they relate to my past, and I think those answers lie in the forest.

  I’ll be careful. I have my map and some food, and I can shelter in Anatoly’s cabins when I need to.

  Please don’t worry. I’ll be back in a day or two.

  I love you,

  Yanka x

  I stare at the note and frown. It’s not a very good note, but I have no idea how to express the feelings I have inside. It would take a thousand words, and even then Mamochka wouldn’t understand. And she’ll worry no matter what I write.

  My gaze drifts through the window to the garden beyond. The moonlit snow is crisscrossed with small animal tracks running into the forest, and the branches of the pines at the bottom of the garden curl, as if beckoning me toward them.

  The thought of Mamochka waking to find me gone tugs at my back, but the pull of the forest, and my story inside it, keeps growing stronger. I need
to go. So I take a deep breath, place the note on the table, and walk out the back door, trying to ignore the stretching sensation in my heart.

  I stand on the porch, feeling more awake and alert than ever before. Every drip and rustle echoes loud in my ears, and every scent sets my nose twitching. Tonight, the forest feels full of promise.

  I lift the hurricane lamp from the hook outside the door. The moon is so bright I don’t need to light it yet, but farther into the forest it will be dark. My claws click across the porch floorboards. I raise my toes to stop the noise, then take one last step into thick snow.

  The ice crust prickles against the soles of my feet. Although it’s cold, it’s not uncomfortable. It feels fresh and exciting. I lift my skirt a little and watch my furry feet make giant bear tracks as I sway across the garden, trying to figure out the best way to move my legs and keep my balance. A smile creeps across my face and I suppress the urge to laugh. It’s just so ridiculous and impossible. Like one of Anatoly’s stories.

  If a person can grow bear legs, then all the magical things Anatoly has told me could be true. The arrowhead around my neck shines like the stars, and hope shivers inside me—hope that in the forest all the questions swimming through my mind will dry up with answers.

  At the bottom of the garden I step beneath the trees and a gust of wind swirls around my ankles. Its icy fingers rake through my fur and I shudder. Branches snap in the cold, and shadows crowd me. Something scurries away through the dark, tangled undergrowth and the screech of an owl pierces the night.

  My mind whirrs with thoughts of other things I might find deep in the forest too. There are dangerous things in Anatoly’s stories—fire dragons who would burn your life away and Yaga who would steal your soul. But more frightening than them are the ordinary dangers I’ve been warned about since I was little: wolf packs on the hunt, steadfast and silent; angry boars that charge with the ferocity of rockfalls; vipers that dart from below; lynx that pounce from above; and wandering bears that might be startled into wild uncontrollable storms. And there are the tiny things that sneak up unseen: ticks and karakurt spiders, and though spring is coming, frostbite still crawls through the air. I suddenly feel as vulnerable as a chick fallen from its nest.