Bear's Heart Read online

  Something had to be done.

  It was clear to me the wind was magical, unnatural; therefore, defeating the wind would be outside of the reach of my family’s abilities. Yes, members of my family can change our shape, but that is the limit of our magic, our pinang. We are not sorcerers. That is not our family’s path.

  I paused while stacking the wood. But we know someone who does walk that path, I thought, with a trill of nerves.

  By the time my parents returned for the evening meal I had my arguments prepared. Looking at their exhausted faces I hesitated, reluctant to proceed with my plan. Building a trap, even for their own good, while they were so defenseless was unfair. Then my father stumbled, caught himself on a wall. He forced himself to stand straight and moved on, but I shook. If my father could be so weakened, then I had to do something. I swallowed, tongue thick in my mouth. I had decided upon the best way—the only way—and they must now be made to see it.

  I served them warm, fresh cakes of bread smeared with a thin sheen of honey and dotted with glistening deep-red berries. The sweet wouldn’t make them agree more easily, but it might put them in a better mood. Besides, by the way their shoulders slumped, I could tell they badly needed the extra energy the sugar would provide.

  “I found more osha today.”

  My father looked up. “You did not take all of it, did you?”

  “Of course, I did. I dug up every root I could see, so that there would be nothing to spread back next year when we need it again.” I grinned at him. “I do remember some things you’ve taught me. I only took a portion and made sure to remember where the growth was so we can revisit that patch later.”

  Osha is good for many things, cures most winter sickness, helps with the racking coughs and bound up lungs and sore throats. So far it had not shown to be a help to us now, but my parents still held hope. They had to. Hope was all we had left.

  “Do any of your patients sleep better today?”

  Mother shrugged one shoulder. “Not that we can tell. Most say they can only hear the wind, hear voices crying and spend their nights trying to understand the words. Blue Snake Woman says to all who can still hear that the voice is that of her daughter who died in the river flood so many years ago.”

  My ears pricked at this. So maybe there was an answer after all? Maybe this was a ghost that could be put to rest?

  My father continued. “But Spotted Feather Man swears it is his wife that he buried last summer. Says he hears her voice telling him how to find her, to bring her back.”

  I shuddered. From time to time parents and spouses did manage to bring back their loved ones from death, but no matter how much they tried, no matter how much they had loved each other, the return never worked out the way they hoped and became more of a heartbreak than the original death.

  “Everyone we’ve spoken to hears a different voice on the wind, always someone they’ve lost, but they can’t make out the words. I fear . . .” and he trailed off.

  This would be my chance.

  “Clearly, this is nothing natural. This is not just the usual winter wind, bringing coughs and aches. Father, Mother, this is sorcery and on our own we cannot defeat it. You must know this.”

  Father stared at me as if I had struck my head and wandered in my wits. “Of course we know this. Cub, we may be old, but we are not stupid.”

  I sat back. If they knew, then why hadn’t they done anything?

  “But, then . . .”

  “Why have we not gone for help?” My mother gazed into the fire. “We have all we can manage to care for the people of our valley. This is our charge, our responsibility. This takes both of us, every moment, every bit of our energy. If one were to leave, the other would be unable to carry on.”

  She looked at me and shook her head, her hair swung like a sheet of dark rain behind her. “Your father and I have discussed this, many times. We cannot leave now, and there are none left who could make the journey, only children. We must wait.”

  I struck the ground with the flat of my hand. “Then send me! I will make sure you have sufficient supplies in the larder, that you have firewood for while I am gone, that all the baskets are full so you run out of nothing. I’ve made the trip before; I would be back in two days.”

  My father set his jaw. “No. I will not have it. I know you have gone there before, but never truly on your own. And for you to be outside and traveling through the wind for a full day each way would only ensure you fell sick, like the others. You have been more resilient to the wind than most, but I will not risk this.”

  I turned to appeal to my mother, but she only pressed her lips together and closed her eyes tight. “No. I agree with your father. It is not your duty yet. He and I will determine a way to get help if we can, but you are not old enough to make the journey.” She rubbed her forehead and swallowed. She opened her soft, pleading eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. Her long thin hands grasped her shoulders so tightly her knuckles streaked white. “I would not hear your voice on the wind, daughter. I cannot stand the thought.”

  I spoke no more on the matter, knowing it grieved them, but late that night I lay on my bed and planned.

  In the morning after they left, I straightened the cave around me, cleaned the clay pots from our early meal, checked the levels of the supplies in the back, and banked the fire. All was well. I had overstocked the larder, to the point of having several weeks laid in of most of our staples. The woodpile came to my shoulders and stretched across the wall twice the reach of my arms.

  This time I would carry no gifts, despite tradition. I would not risk taking anything my parents might need in my absence. I ignored the quiet voice that reminded me what they would want most would be my presence, to be reassured I did not lie unconscious, or worse, on the ground, somewhere out of reach, somewhere they might never find my body.

  I walked to the door, put my hand on the seal and stopped. I had never disobeyed my parents before in such a matter. Argued, fought with them, of course. Stretched the rules occasionally, perhaps. But never deliberately gone out of my way to do something they had forbidden.

  I knew why they worried, of course. Years before I was born, there had been another child, a boy. And he had grown straight and tall and ran and played in the woods around our cave. And one bright summer day, while my family enjoyed the warmth of the sun, my brother had gone chasing after butterflies, or a bright colored bird. Something. They never knew, only that he had disappeared, had wandered outside of the allowed area. They searched, our friends and neighbors searched, for two days, all through the nights.

  Until finally his small body was found trapped in the roots of a tree that grew on a bend of the bank of the river.

  My parents never forgot him, made sure that I knew I had a brother, even if I would never meet him. Sometimes when my mother’s eyes looked into the forest, I knew she was still waiting for her son, wondering what she had done wrong to let this happen.

  But that happened many years ago and my brother was a child when the accident happened. I was nearly grown and this was a different situation, one that required action. I did not want my mother to hear my own voice on the wind.

  I opened the door and stepped into the wind. Closing the door behind me, I ran my hand over it, to make sure it closed completely, with no crack to let the wind in. Only a solid cliff now stood before me.

  No more delays. I put the hood of my coat up and pulled it low over my forehead. I called my image of the bear to mind, soft and golden, large and swift and drew the power into my hands. I bent down, touched the earth, the source of our power, then straightened, pulling the power up and over me in a towering wash. For a brief moment my vision filled with gold sparks, as if I had fallen into the sun.

  The change complete, I lowered myself to all fours and ran North in a quick, easy pace I knew I could keep up for hours. As I ran through the bare trees, the wind called and cried, but I deafened my ears to it. I hurried, and shivered under my fur as I ran, for the
first time in my life uncomfortable and strange in this, my own land.

  Chapter Three

  By early afternoon, only another hour or so of hard travel remained until I arrived at the narrow valley where Spider Old Woman made her home. I paused to soak my sore paws; the hard ground had not softened any with the coming of spring this desolate year. But the icy water made me move on despite my weariness.

  And I still had not come up with anything to tell Spider Old Woman. I shrugged my shoulders. She would help or not. My mother had sent many gifts to the wise one over the years and my failure to do the same now was unlikely to change her feelings towards us. I hoped. If she chose to be offended, there would be little I could do; however, she had always seemed to me to be a practical person, so I had faith she would understand my decisions. All of them.

  I arrived before I felt truly prepared for the meeting. I stood at the top of the hill leading down into the valley and gazed at the snug little house below. Thin flat rocks stacked head-high formed circular walls, a thick thatched roof covered them and smoke curled into the sky above all, whisked away by the shrieking wind. As I approached the door, it opened and Spider Old Woman stood before me, straight and tall, arms folded over her chest.

  Her long black hair shot through with silver hung in a braid over one shoulder and down to her waist. Fine lines crossed her face. Less than one might expect, but a sign of her great age. She wore the same black, ankle-length dress I had always seen her in, bound at the waist with a wide white sash. A strange woman, and powerful beyond imagination. She had never done harm to me or my family, but the pinang under her control made me shudder with a nervous fear. Only a fool would come here uninvited.

  “Well, come on then. Quickly now, girl; I don’t want to leave the door open for too long. Who knows what might creep in?”

  I changed shape and followed her into the dim one-room cottage. Long wooden benches lined the walls with baskets and bundles piled underneath. She gestured towards a bench away from the door and I sank into it, more exhausted from the trip than I had expected, grateful to be out of the wind.

  “Sit, I started boiling water for tea a while ago. I expected you a tad earlier. Did your feet get tired?”

  I waited while she took out two fired-clay cups, put a pinch of dried leaves in each and filled them almost to the brim with steaming hot water.

  She handed one to me and I took it gingerly. We sat in silence for long minutes, me trying to frame my request for help and advice, her gazing into the fire, keeping her thoughts to herself.

  “So, tell me how things have been. Has all been well?”

  My tongue tangled in my mouth. How could she not know?

  She continued. “How does the outland girl fare? Do you visit with her often?”

  For a moment my mind lay blank like a field of newly fallen snow, and then I understood of whom she spoke.

  My friend Maggie had crossed into the land, our world from her own, tempted by dreams and guided by Spider Old Woman and Coyote, the trickster. While here, Maggie defeated a twisted sorcerer who had trapped the people of one of our villages. Since the battle, Maggie and her dog Jack have visited often and we have become close friends.

  “The last I saw of them, Maggie and Jack did well. But I have been asleep for a long time, Grandmother.” And if the crying wind blew across the entire land, I did not know if my friends would be able to cross from their world to ours. I shivered. The wind might even blow across their world. Wind knows no boundaries.

  “That girl never comes to visit me.” Spider Old Woman grumbled into her cup. “You’d think she might bother, once or twice, to come see an old woman who helped her.”

  I blinked, startled. “Grandmother,” I spoke slowly, unsure of my words or how they would be received, “I believe Maggie may think you do not care for her company.”

  “What?” For the first time in my memory, possibly anyone’s memory, the old woman looked surprised. “Why would she think that?”

  “You can be . . . abrupt at times.”

  “Hmmph. I am not abrupt. I am simply honest. I get things done.”

  And now my opening lay before me, a door I had only to find the courage to step through. “Grandmother, I know you are wise and often can find answers to problems that confuse others.”

  She looked across the fire at me, her lips twisted up in a smile. “Spit it out girl. Why are you here?”

  “The crying wind. I need to find a way to stop the wind. Can you make it stop, or tell me how to silence it?”

  She laughed, deep and long. “I wondered who would come to me. I should have guessed you of all the children would be most curious. What will you trade me for my advice?”

  I looked at the packed-dirt floor between my feet. “I apologize, Grandmother. I brought no gifts this time, only a promise of future service.” She raised her eyebrows but said nothing. “My parents struggle to save those who live in our valley. They have no time at the present to gather new herbs or food to replace what I might have taken to bring with me. I am sorry.”

  “Your parents . . . what did they think of your visit here? I cannot believe your mother would ever let you come empty-handed.” Her light voice made the piercing tone all the more sharp. She was right, of course. My family visited Spider Old Woman often and my father often teased my mother about the weight of the hamper she filled with honey and other treats for the elder.

  “They . . .” I thought of the lie I had concocted while I traveled, then thought better of it. “They did not want me to come. They worry that the wind will harm me. They worry too much about everything. I only want to help. I came anyway, without telling them.”

  Spider Old Woman fed the fire another twig and I felt my face flush. “I know your parents well. Better than you think. If they are worried, it is only for love of you. But you know that, when you are not busy being the child you say you are not.

  “I also know your parents must have given you much of your strength, much of their teaching. You know then that you must use the appropriate cure to fight each illness. So let us see if you are suited to be my tool to defeat this wrongness.”

  I jumped a little where I sat on the bench.

  “Grandmother, I am not a wielder of pinang, I have only the gift of my shapes. I am not the right one for this. I have only come to ask you to help us.”

  She took my now empty cup from me and moved to a hanging basket. She rustled through packets, lifted one compact deerskin pouch after another.

  “Here. This will do nicely.”

  She put a pinch of something into both cups, then poured the still hot water from the pot in the ashes over the powder, swirling the liquid to dissolve the powder thoroughly.

  She thrust my cup back towards me. “Drink this.”

  I took the dark tisane from her, hesitated. The thick steam tasted of smoke, of ashes, of something darker.

  “You are ready or not, girl. It is your choice.”

  I would not fail, not back down now. I breathed out, then held the cup of foul-smelling liquid to my mouth and drank as quickly as I could. I finished and my mouth twisted with the taste.

  She took the cup from my hand and replaced it with another.

  “You’ll want to rinse your mouth now, I’m sure.”

  Clear cold water had never tasted so sweet. I wiped my lips when I had emptied the second cup and looked across the fire at her. “Now what?”

  She finished her own potion before she answered. “Now we wait to see if you are a suitable weapon for this task.”

  “I do not want to be a weapon for a sorceress,” I murmured. “I am supposed to be a healer.” But I could hear my voice slur as I slumped against the wall behind the bench.

  I looked into the fire and without warning, the bright flames spread all around, engulfing me.

  The voice of the wind, which the walls of Spider Old Woman’s house had blocked, came to me clearly now, louder than ever before, distinct. I could faintly hear a voice, almost, bu
t not quite make out the words, someone calling, searching, lost and separated.

  A scene resolved before me, growing clear in the middle of the flame: A tall tan building, with covered windows and oddly dressed people walking by. A breeze stirred up tiny waves across a small pond with trees that grew around one side. Ducks paddled serenely through the murky water.

  I had never seen this place. The vision did me no good. I could have wept with frustration, but knew tears would serve no purpose.

  Then I saw the man. He did not look like anything special: young, plain face, a bit stout, with messy light-colored hair. I searched for anything around him, but my attention kept returning to him. I did not recognize this figure, but was certain I would know him again.

  I blinked and the picture changed. A girl, the same I had seen in the fire at my parents’ home, now ran down a dark hallway. Her filthy skirts flapped behind her. She called out a word, over and over, a word I couldn’t hear clearly or understand. The boy, Tomás she had called him, raced behind her, caught her in his arms. She struggled against him and the flames of Spider Old Woman’s fire covered them all.

  I blinked again. I sat beside the embers of Spider Old Woman’s fire, leaning against the wall. For the first time I became aware of a rock from the wall that dug painfully into the small of my back. I shifted to get away from the lump. My arms and legs had gone to sleep, the pricks and stabs as the blood resumed its flow causing me to wince with pain and aggravation.

  “How long?” I croaked, my voice raspy.

  The darkened shape across the room moved, became her familiar form. “A few hours, no longer.”

  “No longer?” I echoed, surprised. “It felt only moments.”