The Girl Who Speaks Bear

by Sophie Anderson

  Mamochka shakes her head. “You should ride back. After all that’s happened, you need to rest.”

  “I’m fine, Mamochka.” I stand tall and pull my shoulders back. “I want to walk.” I beckon Sasha over and we harness Anatoly’s dogs to the cart and help finish loading it up.

  “See you back at home,” Mamochka calls, and I wave as she scoots up the hill ahead of us. The sun peeps over the horizon, throwing peach and violet ribbons across the sky, and I smile.

  “Hey, Yanka.” Sasha punches my arm as he falls into step beside me.

  “What’s that for?” I punch him back.

  Sasha wobbles away from me and laughs. “Running away in the first place. Leaving me in the forest while you sailed away on an ice floe. Letting a Yaga sled me home without you. But mostly”—he punches my arm again—“for not letting me help you.” He looks down at my feet and smiles. “How is that possible?”

  “It’s a gift from the forest.” I wiggle my claws and smile.

  “Will you always have them?”

  “I don’t know.” I punch his shoulder again and run away. Yuri gallops after me and we make it all the way to the edge of the forest before we slip on a patch of muddy ash and skid into a meltwater puddle.

  Sasha catches up and Yuri sits at the bottom of the gnarly old elm while Sasha and I climb up it, until we’re so covered in soot it irritates my nose, and the taste fills my mouth. Mousetrap keeps complaining I’m dirtying his new winter coat, so finally we clamber down and take the forest path home.

  All my favorite trees are blackened and burned. I look up into the forest canopy and feel its pain, like a rawness in my lungs. “How long do you think it’ll take the forest to recover?” I sigh.

  “I don’t think it’ll take too long.” Sasha bites his lips and follows my gaze. “There’s always loads of new growth in summer.”

  The dawn chorus rises around us and echoes Sasha’s words. The birds sing about new leaves and flower buds and the promise of berries to come. Then one of them shouts, “Yaga house!” and a cloud of crossbills flutters away. The pound of giant feet shakes the earth, and a shadow zooms through the trees alongside us.

  My heart leaps at the sight of the house with chicken legs. “Come on!” I shout to Sasha as I race after the house. It sprints through the trees and skids to a halt at the bottom of my garden.

  “Yanka!” Elena beams as she rushes down the porch steps. She throws her arms around my neck and squeezes me until it hurts. “You’re human again.”

  “Mostly.” I nod, glancing down at my feet.

  “I always loved your bear legs.” Elena smiles. “Do you still understand Mousetrap?” She reaches up and dusts the ash off Mousetrap’s coat, and to my surprise, he not only lets her but thanks her. “Yuri!” Elena skips over to Yuri as he appears behind me, then I hear her shout a greeting to Sasha too. But my gaze is drawn to the house.

  Vines extend from the roof and lift the Lime Tree gently down to the ground.

  “Here,” the Lime Tree creaks. “I want to grow here.”

  The vines place the tree between the fallen pines at the bottom of my garden.

  “You’re going to grow here?” I ask. “But I thought you wanted to be deep in the forest.”

  “Here is good.” As soon as the tree’s roots hit the ground, they spread out, thickening and lengthening as they burrow into the earth. Branches stretch into the sky and bullfinches flutter down onto the boughs and turn into brilliant green leaves.

  The burned trees around the Lime Tree glow. Ash and charcoal fall from their trunks, and their bark shines, clean and new. Leaves unfurl. The smell of pine cones splaying drifts into my nose. Birds sing, animals rustle over and under the ashy soil, and I look up into the canopy and feel the forest bursting with joy.

  The Lime Tree pulses and grows larger with each breath. “I like it here.” The tree sighs with satisfaction.

  “Yanka!” Mamochka runs down the garden and stops still at the sight of the Lime Tree and the house with chicken legs. I expect her to pale, or faint, or ask a million questions at once, but she just pulls me into a hug and my heart swells with love.

  Valentyna emerges from the house’s front door and waves a greeting. Mamochka waves back. “Thank you again for bringing Sasha home.”

  “You’re welcome.” Valentyna shoots me a smile. “I’m glad you found your way home too, Yanka.” She looks up at the roof and puts her hands on her hips. “Now, House,” she says sternly. “We have to go back into the forest to prepare for tonight’s guiding.”

  The house’s eaves droop and it puffs a small dark cloud out of its chimney, but then it nods.

  “Come on, Elena,” Valentyna calls. “It’s time to go.”

  Elena hugs Sasha and Yuri, then wanders over to me. She slides a hand into her apron pocket and pulls out my birth mother’s arrowhead. “Mousetrap left this on the porch. He must have found it after the battle with Smey and brought it back.”

  “You keep it.” I smile.

  “I couldn’t.” Elena shakes her head. “It was your birth mother’s.”

  “I want you to have it.” I press it into Elena’s hand. “To remind you of our adventure.”

  “As if I could forget.” Elena laughs.

  “Anyway,” I say, letting go of the arrowhead, “it’s a symbol of my past, and right now, I want to focus on my future.”

  Elena pulls me into another hug. “Come and visit, whenever you like. I’ll keep the arrow safe, and you can have it back anytime.”

  “Thank you.” I nod. “For everything. You too, House.” I smile up at the house as Elena steps onto the porch. A spindle snaps free of the balustrade, reaches toward me, and erupts with bright white blossoms. One of the flowers falls into my hands as the house straightens its legs and steps away. And within moments, the house, Elena, and Valentyna disappear behind a tangle of tall larches.

  A flash of pink on a glistening branch catches my eye. “Yanka!” the bullfinch calls. “Come back to the forest!” But Mousetrap launches himself from my shoulder and dives straight at the little bird. The bullfinch flaps away just in time and Blakiston swoops down and catches Mousetrap in his claws.

  Mousetrap twists and leaps onto Blakiston’s back and they fly off between the trees, shouting something about freshwater cod. In the distance, bobbing up and down above the canopy, is the house with chicken legs, heading north, deeper into the forest.

  “Come on.” Mamochka links her arms around my and Sasha’s elbows. “Let’s go inside for a hot drink.”

  As we walk toward the house, there’s a knock on the kitchen window. I glance up and a smile bursts across my face at the sight of Anatoly, in our kitchen. He’s a man, with soot in his beard and a twinkle in his eye.

  “Sbiten?” He mouths the word, holding up my favorite yellow mug.

  “Who’s that?” Yuri asks. “Is he part of our herd too?”

  “That’s Anatoly.” I smile. “He’s part of our herd, although he isn’t always strong enough to admit it.”

  Yuri stares at me in confusion.

  “Not everyone is born as brave as you.” I ruffle the woolly fur around Yuri’s neck. “It can take a lot of strength to admit you need a herd.”

  My muscles relax as I let Mamochka sweep me into the warmth and smells of home. We drink sbiten and take turns telling stories by the fire—some with more truth in them than others.

  Anatoly and Mamochka sit close together, with wide smiles and bright eyes, and although Anatoly flushes pink when he smiles, he doesn’t always look down. Sometimes he looks at Mamochka, and sometimes he looks at me.

  I see the bear glistening in his eyes, and I wonder how long he’ll stay. But I know we belong together, so even if he leaves, he’ll come home again.

  When the sun is high in the sky but we’re all yawning with tiredness, I walk Sasha to the door and step outside to say goodbye.

  “Call for you tomorrow?” he asks.

  I smile and nod. “We could go to t
he village to help with the cleanup and repairs.”

  “That would be good.” Sasha waves as he runs down through the garden. He stops to stroke Anatoly’s dogs, who are settled into the shelter, and Yuri, who is lying in the shade beneath the Lime Tree. He glances back at me and smiles. “While you were in the forest, did you find out who you are?”

  I look down at my feet and smile. “I’m Yanka the Bear. Same as before.”

  “I could have told you that.” Sasha laughs and waves again as he wanders away.

  I hesitate before I go inside, to be near the forest a few moments longer. The treetops rustle and the wind whispers secrets. I turn my head to the sound, wondering what other stories from my past lie in the forest. My heart races and my toes twitch. But then I turn and open the door. Because more important than the stories of my past are the stories of my future. And those—with a little help from my family and friends—I can write for myself.

  I climb the Blue Mountain slowly. The summer sun is high in the sky, the rocks are warm, and the air is alive with the hum of insects and the scents of pollen. Vibrations run into the soles of my bear feet: grasses swaying, crickets jumping, and rabbits burrowing into soft soil.

  I walked here through the forest, with Mamochka and Anatoly by my side. But they’ve stayed at the bottom of the mountain, to picnic by the river.

  Mamochka said I could wander up to the bear cave alone. She doesn’t worry so much these days. She knows I’ll always come home.

  I find my grandmother sitting on the ledge in front of her cave, her eyes half-closed against the light. Sunbeams play in her thick brown fur, and the forest, a thousand shades of brilliant green, spreads out before her. In the distance, the Fiery Volcano glows emerald with new foliage, and white fluffy clouds gently drift across its peak.

  My grandmother grunts a deep peaceful greeting. I sit and lean into her sun-warmed fur, and the massive mound of her body curves around my back. “It’s good to have you home,” she murmurs. “I missed you.”

  I slide my fingers through the fur of her neck and rest my head on her chest. The sound of her heart beating is as familiar as my own, and her scent, of earth and moss, berries and pine nuts, makes me feel safe. “I missed you too.”

  We sit together as the sun slowly sinks through the sky. I tell my grandmother about my life in the village: how the garden I planted with Mamochka is now bursting with color, and the Lime Tree is alive with bullfinch chicks, all hiding from Mousetrap’s hunts. I tell her how me and Sasha built a shelter for Yuri and made a dugout canoe together, and how I’ve been swimming in the river with Polina. And I tell her how all the villagers worked together to carve and paint the new village hall roof.

  My grandmother tells me about life in the forest: about the politics of the wolves, and all the new cubs, kits, pups, fawns, and boarlets born this year. She tells me how the river has shifted shape and made new pools and curves to fish in. And she even tells me a story about my birth mother, Nastasya, and another from her past, from when she was a young woman named Anya, living in a castle with a golden domed roof.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” My grandmother smiles as the sun begins to set in the distance.

  I nod, rise to my feet, and stretch. “It’s time for me to go.”

  A breeze flows up from the bottom of the mountain, carrying the sounds of human voices. It’s Anatoly, telling Mamochka a story about a flying ship. She’s laughing, asking if he’ll take her for a ride in it. My gaze drifts to the village in the south. My village. I feel its pull.

  It’s the summer festival soon. I want to help build the stage for the festival show and race in the canoe with Sasha. And at the end of the night, I want to jump into the starry waters of the Great River with all the other children, and splash and laugh until the sun rises. Mousetrap said he would come to the festival this year, as long as he could stay curled up around my neck, and Anatoly said he’d come to help Mamochka with her stall.

  “Will you visit again?” my grandmother asks.

  “Of course.” I nod. “I’ll be back before autumn.”

  And as I walk away, down the mountain, toward home, my grandmother’s deep, rumbling snores echo after me and I smile, because I know something of our souls will always be joined together.

  babushka: an old woman or grandmother

  dedushka: an old man or grandfather

  domra: a musical instrument with a round body, a long neck, and three or four metal strings

  golubtsy: rolls made by wrapping cooked cabbage leaves around a savory filling

  gusli: a musical instrument with many strings, played by plucking

  kalyuka: a type of flute with no playing holes, traditionally made from a hollow plant stem

  knish: a baked, grilled, or fried pastry with a savory filling

  kvass: a sour, tangy drink made by fermenting bread or grains

  mamochka: a term of endearment for a mother

  piroshki: baked or fried puff pastries with a sweet or savory filling

  pryaniki: sweet breads or cookies flavored with spices

  rubakha: a long, tunic-style shirt, often decorated with embroidery

  rusalki: water-dwelling spirits from Slavic mythology

  samovar: a metal urn used to boil water for tea, traditionally with a fire in the middle and a tap on the bottom

  sbiten: a hot honey drink made with spices

  stroganoff: a dish made from meat or vegetables cooked in a sour cream sauce

  sushki: small, sweet, crunchy bread rings

  tsar: a male ruler, like a king or an emperor

  tsarina: a female ruler, like a queen or an empress

  Keep reading for a sneak peek at another magical Sophie Anderson tale, The House with Chicken Legs

  I light the candles in the skulls at dusk. An orange glow flickers out from their empty eye sockets, beckoning the dead. They appear on the horizon like mist and take shape as they stumble over the rocky ground toward the house.

  When I was younger, I used to try to guess what their lives had been like, or what pets they might have had, but now that I’m twelve years old I’m bored of that game. My gaze is drawn to the lights of the town glistening far below, a universe of possibilities.

  I jump as Jack swoops out of the darkness and lands on the windowsill next to me. His claws click against the wood and he ruffles his feathers. It sounds like the wind in the trees and I think of the freedom in the air.

  “I wish I could fly down there, Jack.” I stroke the back of his neck. “And spend an evening with the living.” I think of all the things the living might be doing, things I’ve only read about in books but could actually do if I was down there: run races or play games with other children, watch a show in a theater, surrounded by warm, smiling faces …

  “Marinka!” Baba calls, and the window blinks shut.

  “Coming, Baba.” I throw on my headscarf and run to the door. I should be there to greet the dead with her, to watch as she guides them through The Gate. After all, it’s “a serious responsibility” and I have to “focus” and “learn the ways” so I can do it on my own one day. I don’t want to think about that day. Baba says it’s my destiny to become the next Guardian and, when I do, my first duty will be to guide her through The Gate. A shudder bursts through my chest and I shake it off. Like I said, I don’t want to think about that day.

  Baba is stirring a great cauldron of borsch over a roaring fire. She turns and smiles as I enter the room, an excited twinkle in her eyes. “You look lovely, my pchelka. Are you ready?”

  I nod and force a smile, wishing I loved guiding as much as her.

  “Look.” Baba glances at her chair, where a violin sits, freshly strung and polished. “I finally got around to mending it. I hope one of the dead will play us some fresh tunes.”

  “That would be nice.” The prospect of new music would have excited me not so long ago, but these days, no matter which of her old musical instruments Baba fixes up, the nights spent guiding all feel the sa
me. “Shall I pour the kvass?” I look at the table, where an army of stout glasses is waiting to be filled with the dark, pungent drink.

  “Yes, please.” Baba nods. I push my way through the steamy sour smells as she wails a song off-key, swaying a spoonful of the bright red beetroot soup up to her lips. “More garlic,” she mutters, and throws a handful of raw cloves into the mix.

  I open a bottle and pour the kvass. Its yeasty stench plumes into the air, mixing effortlessly with the reek of the soup. I watch the creamy-colored bubbles rise through the dark brown liquid and erupt into a thick, foamy froth on the surface. One by one the bubbles pop and disappear just like the dead will all vanish at the end of the night. It seems so pointless getting to know the dead when we’ll never see them again. But it’s our duty as Yaga, living in this Yaga house, to talk to them and give them one last wonderful evening reliving their memories and celebrating their lives, before they pass through The Gate and return to the stars.

  “They’re here!” Baba exclaims, and she sweeps across the room, arms outstretched. An old man is hovering in the doorway. He’s faint and wispy, a sure sign he’s been expecting this for some time. It won’t take long for him to pass through The Gate.

  Baba talks to him softly in the language of the dead as I fill the table. Bowls and spoons, thick black bread, a basket of dill, pots of sour cream and horseradish, mushroom dumplings, an assortment of tiny glasses, and a large bottle of spirit trost—the fiery drink for the dead. Baba says it’s named trost after a walking stick because it helps the dead on their journey.

  I try to listen to them, try to focus and understand what they’re saying, but the language of the dead evades me. I’ve always found it more difficult than the languages of the living, which I pick up as easily as shells on a beach.

  My mind keeps drifting to the town. The way it curves around the narrow end of the lake. I’ve seen the living go out on little fishing boats in the morning, in groups of two or three. I wonder what it would be like to row one with a friend. We could go all the way to the island in the middle and explore it together. Maybe build a fire and camp under the stars …