The Girl Who Speaks Bear

by Sophie Anderson

  Baba nudges me gently as she helps the old man into a chair. “Would you get a bowl of borsch for our guest, please?”

  More dead flood in. Daydreams loiter at the edge of my mind as I serve, arrange chairs and bring cushions, and try to reassure the dead with smiles and nods. Soon they relax, warmed by food and drink and the lick and crackle of flames in the hearth. The house gives them energy and they become more solid, until they almost seem alive. Almost.

  Laughter echoes around the rafters, and the house murmurs with satisfaction as the dead reminisce about their prides and joys, and sigh at their sorrows and regrets. The house lives for the dead. Baba too. She flits from guest to guest, her twisted old body now nimble as a hummingbird.

  On the few occasions the living have wandered close to the house, I’ve heard their whispers. I’ve heard them call Baba ugly, hideous, a witch or a monster. I’ve heard them say she eats people. But they’ve never seen her like this. She’s beautiful, dancing among the dead, bringing comfort and joy. I love her wide crooked-toothed smile, her big warty nose, and her thinning white hair that floats out from under her skulls-and-flowers headscarf. I love her comfortable, fat belly and her bowed, stumpy legs. I love her ability to make everyone feel at ease. The dead come here lost and confused, but they leave calm and peaceful and ready for their journey.

  Baba is a perfect Guardian. Far better than I will ever be. But then, I don’t want to be a Guardian. Being Guardian means being responsible for The Gate and all the guiding of the dead, forever. And while guiding makes Baba happy, seeing the dead drift away every night makes me feel even more alone. If only I was destined to be something else. Something that involved living people.

  The house shifts its weight, settling into the night, and opens its skylights wide. Stars twinkle above us, raining down tiny sparks of light. “Trost!” Baba shouts, and she pulls the cork out of the bottle with her teeth. The sweet, spicy smell of the drink fills the air and the fire burns brighter.

  The Gate appears in the corner of the room, near the hearth. It’s a large black rectangle. Blacker than the darkness at the bottom of a grave. It draws your gaze like a black hole draws light, and the longer you stare at it, the stronger it pulls you in.

  I move toward it, hands in my apron pocket, avoiding its yawn by looking at the floor. The floorboards seem to flow into the chasm and disappear into the blackness. Out of the corners of my eyes, I see fleeting glimpses of light and color deep inside the void. The sweep of a rainbow, the twinkle of nebulae, billowing storm clouds, and the infinite arc of the Milky Way. An ocean breathes far below and water smashes against the glassy mountains. I scoop the dead spider from my pocket and place it on the floor.

  The spider’s soul pulls itself out of the carcass and looks around the room in confusion. Animals don’t need to be guided—Baba says they understand the great cycle better than humans—so it’s probably wondering why it’s in a Yaga house.

  I mumble the death journey words anyway, forgetting half of them and mispronouncing the rest. Something about strength on the long and arduous path, gratitude for time on Earth, and peace at returning to the stars. The dead spider tilts its head at me and looks even more confused. I sigh and brush it into The Gate, wondering for the millionth time if destinies are fixed. If I really do have to become a Guardian and spend my life saying goodbyes, when I ache to have friendships that last for more than one night.

  Baba starts singing and the dead join her. Their voices rise higher and louder. One of them picks up the violin and plays, faster and faster. The house bounces in time to the music, and the dead stamp their feet and spin and dance. But slowly, one by one, they tire and sigh and drift toward The Gate. Baba whispers the death journey words into their ears, kisses their cheeks, and they sink into the darkness, smiling as they float away.

  When the first light of dawn dims the stars above, there is only one left. A young girl, wrapped in one of Baba’s black-and-red shawls, staring into the fire. The young always find it hardest to pass through The Gate. It seems unfair that their time spent on Earth is so short. Baba says “it’s not how long a life, but how sweet a life that counts.” She says some souls learn what they’ve come here to learn quickly and others take their time. I don’t see why we can’t all have long, sweet lives, lessons aside.

  Baba gives the child sugared almonds, holds her close, and whispers in her ear words I don’t understand, and eventually the girl nods and lets Baba guide her through The Gate. As the girl drifts away, pale golden rays of sunlight fall through the skylights and The Gate disappears. The skylights blink shut and the house sighs. Baba dabs a tear from the corner of her eye, although when she turns to me she’s smiling, so I’m not sure if she is happy or sad. “Cocoa?” she asks, her mind still stuck in the language of the dead.

  “Yes, please.” I nod and begin to clear away the dishes.

  “Did you listen to the astronomer who had a star named after her?” Baba’s face lights up as she reverts to our usual chatter. “I guided a stargazer to the stars!”

  I try to picture all the faces of the dead and work out who she might have been, but I have no idea. “I still find the language of the dead really difficult.”

  “You understood it when I offered you cocoa.”

  “That’s different.” Blood rushes into my cheeks. “Cocoa is just one word. The dead all talk too fast.”

  Baba passes me my mug, filled to the brim with hot, sweet cocoa, and sits in her chair by the fire. “What shall we read this morning?”

  I slide my headscarf off, sit on my floor cushion, and lean against Baba’s knees. She always reads to me before we go to bed for our morning sleep. “Will you tell me a story about my parents instead?” I ask.

  Baba strokes my hair. “Which one would you like to hear?”

  “How they met.”

  “Again?” she asks.

  “Again.” I nod.

  “Well.” Baba takes a sip of cocoa. “You know both your parents were from ancient Yaga families, with ancestors stretching all the way back to the First Yaga of the Russian steppes.”

  Jack carefully folds a piece of honey bread into the fabric of my skirt and I stroke the soft feathers on the side of his face.

  “Your mother’s house had been galloping from the Swiss Alps in the east, and your father’s house from the Austrian Alps in the west. Without warning, both houses suddenly turned south and settled on the outskirts of Venice for the night, to soak their legs in the water.”

  “The houses’ feet were so hot from running …” I prompt.

  “The water sizzled and steamed in the moonlight.” Baba smiles. “Your mother looked out her window and was so taken with the beauty of the city that she snuck out and borrowed a gondola so she could explore the canals in the quiet of the night.”

  I imagine my mother floating over a smooth, dark reflected sky, which gently sloshes against her boat as she strokes her oar through the starry waters.

  “Not far away”—Baba taps her foot on the floor rhythmically—“your father, also taken with the beauty of the city, was dancing on the roof of his house.”

  I laugh. “He still lived with his parents?”

  Baba nods. “Your mother had been living in a Yaga house of her own for a few years, but your father still lived with his Yaga parents.”

  “My father saw my mother, leaned over for a closer look …” I wait for Baba to finish my sentence.

  She leans over me, like my father leaning over on the roof of his house. “Your father tripped and plummeted.” Baba’s eyes widen in mock fear. “Down and down, toward the canal … and then he landed, hard, in your mother’s boat. It rocked so much your mother fell into the water, screaming.”

  “My father dived in to save her,” I rush in. “But he tripped again as he jumped out of the gondola, banged his head, and ended up unconscious in the canal.”

  Baba rests her hand on my shoulder. “And so your mother ended up saving him.”

  “Then they fe
ll in love, and had me.” I smile.

  “Well, that was a few years later. But yes, they had you. You were their world, Marinka. They loved you so much.”

  I sigh and put my empty mug down. I love that story—not because of the moonlit canals, or the dancing on the roof, or the falling into the water and being saved, although they are all good bits. I love that story because although my mother broke the rules, sneaking out of the house and stealing a gondola in the middle of the night, nothing bad happened because of it. And I love the idea that one day, completely out of the blue, someone or something could come hurtling down from the sky and change my life, forever.

  The Girl Who Speaks Bear spent many moons wandering aimlessly through the forest, and I owe mountains of gratitude to the kind and patient guides who led Yanka, and me, to the paths we needed to follow:

  For their wisdom, insights, and encouragement: my agent, Gemma Cooper; and my editors, Rebecca Hill and Becky Walker at Usborne and Mallory Kass at Scholastic. I am truly blessed to have you in my life. You lift me and stretch me until I feel like I can reach the stars and sprinkle their dust over my words.

  For bringing Yanka, the Snow Forest, and the creatures inside it to life in ways more beautiful than I ever imagined, my endless admiration and appreciation goes to Kathrin Honesta, whose magnificent illustrations blanket and bestow the UK edition with pure magic, and to Maeve Norton for designing and Chris Sickels at Red Nose Studio for creating the stunning US cover. I am astonished by the brilliance of your work.

  For their passion, talent, and dedication: the great herd of publishing professionals at Usborne and Scholastic. My thanks to you all, with an extra hug for Sarah Stewart, Katharine Millichope, Sarah Cronin, Josh Berlowitz, Katarina Jovanovic, and Stevie Hopwood (for hand-stamping nine hundred gorgeous proofs among other feats of awesomeness).

  For calling me home from the forest, to the place where I belong, my endless love goes to my husband, Nick, and our children, Nicky, Alec, Sammy, and Eartha. You are my everything.

  For their love and support: my parents, Karen and John, and my brothers, Ralph and Ross; my grandparents, especially Gerda, whose stories live on and inspire me every day; the family I have been gifted through Nick, especially Frank and Sheila; and my soul sisters Lorraine and Gillian.

  For their inspiration and kindness: James Mayhew, Kiran Millwood Hargrave, Michelle Harrison, Cerrie Burnell, Sarah McIntyre, Onjali Rauf, Liz Flanagan (with extra thanks for the early feedback), Yaba Badoe, Kieran Larwood, Candy Gourlay, Robin Stevens, Catherine Doyle, Samuel J. Halpin, Gabrielle Kent, David Almond, Hilary McKay, and the many other authors and illustrators who have welcomed me into this enchanted story-filled world.

  For helping me with my use of Russian words, huge thanks to Galina Achkasova-Portianoi; and to Galina Varese, for creating delicious story-inspired recipes.

  For their incredible, invaluable work putting books into readers’ hands and promoting a love of reading: all the booksellers, librarians, teachers, book reviewers, and book bloggers. Heartfelt thanks to each and every one of you, with an extra hug for the Waterstones booksellers, whose support of The House with Chicken Legs has been truly career making; librarian and chair of CKG judges 2019, Alison Brumwell, alongside all the other judges, and the teachers, librarians and young people involved in the Carnegie shadowing scheme; The Bookseller children’s previews editor, Fiona Noble; children’s book editor for The Sunday Times, Nicolette Jones; writer, school librarian, and book blogger, Jo Clarke; and teacher bloggers Ashley Booth, Scott Evans, and Steph Elliott.

  Above all, thanks to my readers, for taking The House with Chicken Legs into your hearts, and journeying with The Girl Who Speaks Bear on her adventures through the Snow Forest. You, readers, make word-filled pages spring to life like trees blossoming after a long winter, and by creating that magic between us, I believe something of our souls will always be joined together.

  Sophie Anderson grew up in Swansea, studied at Liverpool University, and has worked as a geologist and a science teacher. She currently lives in England’s Lake District with her husband and enjoys the freedom of homeschooling her four children, walking, canoeing, and daydreaming. She loves to write stories inspired by different folklores, cultures, and landscapes. Her first novel, The House with Chicken Legs, was a Kirkus Best Book of 2018, a Waterstones Children’s Book of the Month, and an American Booksellers Association “Indies Introduce” selection, and it was shortlisted for the Carnegie Medal.

  Copyright © 2019 by Sophie Anderson

  All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Press, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, SCHOLASTIC PRESS, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available

  First US edition, March 2020

  Cover art © 2020 by Red Nose Studios

  Cover design by Maeve Norton

  e-ISBN 978-1-338-60865-6

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