Choosing the Bear

I wasn’t expecting this.

I had to go into town for eggs. Normally, Bessie and Judith and Norbert give me enough that this is never a problem, but for some reason they all got broody at the same time. The fact that there’s a handsome pheasant hanging around the cottage, strutting around like he’s “actually a peacock you know.” Yes, he actually said that. So of course the hens are clucking away. Not that anything will come of it, of course, but, the instincts die hard.

Most of my menagerie are humans, turned into animals. Punishment, discipline, redirection, call it what you will. It is all of that and more. And they will either learn the lessons and return to their original forms, and resume their interrupted human lives, or they live out their days with me.

Some few are hiding from something, and these forms suit them well in remaining safe.

And I protect them.

So when I walked out of the woods, swinging my basket carefully and humming a small tune, to see Raven bobbing on a branch and making half-flaps to get my attention, I knew we had a problem.

“There’s a bear on the front porch,” it croaked.

***

“Not a bear?”

Raccoon was wringing its paws in distress.

I approached the bundle of wool carefully. They assured me it was a youngling by scent, but if so, this was a very, very, big youngling.

I took it slowly. If there was a person wrapped inside this shape, it was certainly big enough to damage me. “Sir? Are you all right? Is there some way that I can help you?”

It shivered at every syllable I spoke, but did not respond.

Raven, as ever, was impatient. “Oy! Yer bein’ spoken to! Respond, like a civilized bein’!”

More pronounced shivering, and soft grunting. One leg-like object lashed out, and we all jumped, but I could tell it was reflex. No harm was meant, but size could harm just as much. I would have to be very careful with this one.

Raccoon was chittering again, but in terror now. “It… it says something like I won’t go back? And running away? Its speech is blurry. I cannot understand much.”

We stared at Raccoon. “Wait. It is speaking to you? I hear no words.”

“Not human speech. Animal speech. It understands you, but cannot speak your speech in return. It responds in one of the animal languages. A strange cross of rodent and mammal speech. I think. The accent is very strange.”

“Ah. A lostling, as well as youngling.” I sat back on my haunches, still wary, but thinking. “Youngling, if you can understand me, I mean you no harm, nor do these my friends. But if you would come inside, where you would be more comfortable, we can have some food. And see how we can help you find your way.”

The shivering got worse at the word “inside,” but stopped at the word “food.” A questing sniffling came from inside the bundle of the worst rough-spun wool I have ever seen. More felted in patches than spun, really.

I nodded. “I’ll go around the back, and open the door from inside, and you can come in.”

***

I’ll need to buy more oatmeal.

It ate three bowls.

I had to stop it at the fourth. “Youngling, I know you are still hungry, but too much too fast will hurt your tummy. Here, drink this; it will help. That, there is plenty of, and I can make much more. It will help your pinched belly. And mint tea is good for digestion.”

I gave it the biggest tankard I had, and it seemed to be gone in moments.

Raccoon stayed, only because I asked. I needed a translator to the soft grunts that came from time to time from the shags of brownish wool. “It says it will need to eliminate, and will behave? Do what is expected? Because you do not yell? I do not understand.”

“Hmm.” I motioned for the giant wool ball to follow. “The outhouse is this way, and I will leave the back door open, so you know you are welcome to return. Unless you wish to stay outside, near the garden? I can show you how to clean your hands afterward, and what supplies I use to wipe off, and such. I do not know how much you know how to do, to stay clean.”

“It says it has no fleas.”

“That’s good, but there are other ways to be dirty. Baths help, but I think there is pain associated with those. Youngling, I can show you how to bathe yourself. I just need to know what causes you pain, and help fix it.”

It grunted, but bolted for the outhouse.

Raccoon was confused. “It says it knows about soap, and sees the bottle and the cloths and the bowl, but needs to go now.”

We waited, and sure enough, it knew how to clean itself when done with the outhouse, and even was careful with the handle before abluting. I sighed in relief.

But I still hadn't seen a glimpse of skin. Strange.

I didn’t know what gender we were dealing with. Not that it mattered much, but I was worried about this one’s comfort levels. And reactions to being taken outside them.

It returned, and I pointed to a cushion I’d gotten from inside when it was in the outhouse. “Do you know what a cushion is? It is a thing to sit on, for comfort. It is soft, like the one I have. You may sit on it, if you wish.”

It was a lovely spring day, and it was still swathed in so many layers, that I itched in sympathy by just looking at the rags. It hunched over, staring at the padded pillow like it was a king’s throne. Well, that’s what I assume – its head was so far into multiple hoods, that I couldn’t see its head, much less its eyes.

It bent over, sniffing at it. Then one hand reached out to feel for its alleged softness.

Raccoon and I both hissed, and it jerked back like I’d yelled.

“I am so sorry, youngling. I did not mean to startle you. Raccoon and I couldn’t help but notice. Go back to your examination, I shall be right back.” I got up smoothly, resisted the urge to dart into the kitchen.

Oh, I was angry.

When I returned with the healing salve, it had seated itself. I grabbed my cushion, nudged it over to the youngling. “I know, you could react, and I could get very hurt. But I saw those wounds, and I would like to heal them. This is a salve I made, and I can tell you what each ingredient is. It is cool to the touch, a bit oily, and will warm up when it touches your skin. But not painful. May I put some on your wounds?”

There was hunching, and shivering. Raccoon didn’t translate, but crept over. “This is a good person. This one has dedicated their life to helping. They have never knowingly lied, and I have lived with them for many, many years. I know it is hard to trust, but if there is anyone in this life to trust, it is this one.”

I blinked. “Raccoon, I didn’t know you felt that way.”

Raccoon snorted. “I could have gone home ages ago. I did learn my lesson about not stealing what wasn’t mine, though you wouldn’t know that by how I act at dinner. But they are better off at home without me, honestly. The throne has gone to another line, much more secure and stable. And can balance a budget, and treat our people well. Here, I can help. A bit. Like now. And it helps me feel like I am part of a bigger thing, instead of a bad human. I am a good Raccoon, so Raccoon I will stay.”

Was I crying? I don’t do that often. I’m also not noticed much, being a bit character in everyone else’s origin stories.

But the youngling stretched out both arms, and I was very gentle in spreading salve over the obvious manacle wounds. Whoever did this used iron, and were too tight, and chafed both wrists raw. Oh, I was so angry. If there was any magic blood in this one, it would hurt doubly.

The youngling was grunting softly, sniffing the mild and pleasant odor from the salve. Raccoon nodded. “It says thank you, that is much better.”

“You are welcome, youngling. Are there any more wounds to tend? I cannot imagine that those wool layers are comfortable. They look very itchy to me. Would you take off some, be more at ease? And we can talk about a bath as well, one that will be just as mild and pleasant as the salve.”

More shivering, much more grunting. Raccoon soothed, I soothed, and eventually, the shivers and rocking subsided. Slowly, so slowly, the shell was sloughed off.

The eye color. The shape. A changeling.

The wounds. Leg manacles as well, and lash marks. Small wonder the rough layers, to deflect fists and kicks. Bruises everywhere.

Raccoon was hissing, and I heard echoes. Many of the other animals in the menagerie had come over out of curiosity, but recoiled at the patterns of abuse.

I didn’t hiss this time; I had to stay calm. For his sake; I could finally see he was male. “Ay-yai, youngling, you have been abused horribly. My friends here agree. They are not happy about what we see here. We will help. I have much salve, even if you must bathe in it for a while. Let’s see if we can help you feel better.” And we did so, with him helping us, putting ointment in places where even I would be hesitant to touch.

Raven was muttering dire imprecations against the perpetrators, and I couldn’t agree more. But first, comfort.

When we’d basically emptied the jar, I set it aside, got him and myself more mint tea. We drank in silence, and in between, I would reassure him that he was not going back, and we would figure out together where he would stay.

Raccoon told me that he’s not comfortable inside. Inside means pain, confinement.

I nodded. “Then we shall arrange cushions right out here for you. I have some soft linen, I should make you a set of clothing that isn’t itchy. Your poor skin, to have to deal with such roughness. We can fix that.”

More grunts. Raccoon was distressed. “He says, his parents believed him changeling, so they refused to believe he was their son. So no clothing for him, when all others had it. He stole horse blankets, and was whipped for it, so he stole the old ratty ones. Or grabbed the meat-sheep’s wool and pounded it. That they didn’t mind, but no real clothing. Not for him.”

Ohhh, I was angry. So were the rest.

“Well, youngling, if you wish to put it behind you, we will make sure it never happens again. We will make sure to find the place where you belong.”

He grunted, nodding over his mug.

“Take a nap, youngling. Here, take my cushion too, and I’ll get a third from inside. Maybe a fourth, too, so you can stretch out. We are in no rush, and you are safe.”

***

“Person, did… is… are there changelings?”

“No, Raccoon, there are not. There are fairies, you’ve met some. And there is magic. Those you know. But we humans invented the idea of changelings, because some cannot deal with the fact that their children may be different in shape or thought.”

“That’s cruel.”

Raven snorted. “You used to be human, you did something bad to become a raccoon, and you say that?”

“I just bankrupted a kingdom, Raven, not… that. Chaining a boy because he can’t talk. Harming children. Never.”

“I studied with a healer who told me about it, ages ago. Longer than you’ve been alive, Raccoon. They said that it is a thing you’re born with, a result of the father and mother parts of a baby mixing strangely. Not wrong, just different. A small group, compared to everyone else, but known all the same. Built different than either parent, and if you’re looking for sameness, you will be disappointed. And look for something or someone else to blame.”

Raccoon sighed. “They held his feet to the fire because he didn’t talk?”

“That, and more. Their ‘remedies’ are torture, plain and simple. And they don’t work. They are different, so must be taught a different way, is all. But no one wants to pay for it. They ask why they can’t be normal, ignore them, and move on to have more children that are like themselves.”

“And blame fairies.”

“Yes, I have met some fairies who are rather upset about that.”

Raven was drawing breath to answer, when we heard the hens screaming in the hen house.

We rushed outside. I grabbed my staff.

Pheasant had joined the fray, screeching in descant to the hens’ cackling. They darted about, pecking and scratching at any flesh that presented itself.

She was dressed finely, but her face was cruel. She was trying to hit back, but then Raven arrowed in, and it became no contest. If she kept her eyes intact, I would be surprised.

She tried fighting back, but it was useless. Once some of the bigger animals committed themselves to the fight, it was over, she just didn’t know it. Hart flipped her over, and Sow sat on her. And soiled her fine clothing in the process, grunting gleefully, rolling her in some gloppy mud.

I spotted something in the grass. With the hen molester subdued, I sauntered over, plucked the things up. Clank, clank.

Manacles.

Ooohhhh, she dared.

I grinned nastily.

My menagerie isn’t dumb. They can figure out things quicker than most humans I’ve encountered. The growls were menacing. Sow bounced a little on her chest, knocking the wind out of her. Boar, who tiptoed up on her, snarled and drooled in her face.

I dangled the chains in the hag’s line of sight. “You seemed to have dropped something, when you came a-thieving on my property.”

Sow let her get breath to talk. Barely. “I was looking for my slave. It ran away, and I was checking to get it back.”

“Sure. Avoiding the front door, which would be logical. A small slave, to be hiding under a hen, in her nest. Unlikely. Good attempt, though.”

“Fine! It’s my son, and it’s dangerous. I must keep it in chains so it doesn’t break out and damage anyone. I’ve had many things broken by its clumsiness and rages.”

“Funny, last I checked, a son can’t be turned into a slave until majority is reached, and only if there’s a criminal record. And a judge must be consulted. Do you have the proper paperwork?”

Silence.

“Well, sorry to inform you, but a thief is a thief. And there are things I can do, with your trespassing on my property.” I lifted my staff, made a strange sigil with the tip, and spoke some uncanny words.

The hag shrieked, straining. Sow moved fast, scampering away, and magic took hold.

The hag shriveled, folding in on herself. Spiky things emerged, twisting, gnarled, twiggy. Clothing and hair rippled, flapping in no breeze, unfolding, veining, greening. Legs melted into the ground, arms reached towards the sky, fingers sprouting all over, lengthening.

When the transformation was complete, there was a perfectly serviceable sour hedge-apple bush growing where she lay.

Boar grunted happily, and took a large chomp out of a branch, leaves and all. If you listened, you could almost hear a tiny keening shriek of indignation and pain. Good.

And now that the emergency was resolved, I went looking for the youngling.

I found him in the center of a maze of herbs that wasn’t there earlier. Raccoon was guarding him, but he was sleeping peacefully. Rosemary bushes, impossibly think and knotty, guarded him from his kin. But they let me pass to make sure he was safe.

I told Raccoon what happened, and they scampered off to rip some twigs off in revenge.

I stared at the youngling.

What was I going to do?

***

“He’s more animal than human, and likes it that way.”

“And that’s fine, Raven. I can’t change him, though. The magic only works to punish, not to bless. Which is an oversight, I suppose, but I’m not going to have him deliberately break some rules so I can punish him for it. He’s been punished quite long enough, thank you, for no reason.”

“So what can you do? This isn’t a regular adventuring scenario, where he can go off and find himself.”

I sighed. “What I always do, Raven. Get a consultation.”

***

The forest was very still when I walked in.

This forest is uncanny, in the old sense of the word. It is magic, and no one understands it, and no one messes with it. If they do, they find themselves on the wrong end of powerful curses.

The nearest town to me, geographically, is a day’s travel down the road. If I wish to travel, I go into the forest, with a destination in mind. Within an hour’s walk, I find myself coming out the far side of a dark wood, on the road to where I need to go.

This time, I needed a glade. A very magical one.

It didn’t take long for the path to open up into a very pretty one, festooned with honeysuckle and violets. A bump in the middle was covered in creeping thyme, soft as a chair. I sank into it gratefully.

I was ever so happy when the forest was in a receptive mood.

I was quiet, but I laid out my dilemma to the empty air. The changeling, the torture, the healing, the hag-mother. The punishment.

The question: “What shall I do with him? He will not be happy still living in his mother’s literal shadow, I am certain. But I do not know where he belongs, to advise him what to do. He’s not even healed, and I certainly will never throw him out. Wrong shape, wrong place, wrong time. What am I missing? How do I help?”

Silence.

I waited.

A bee buzzed by, heavily laden with pollen. A sprinkling fell across my nose, she was that close.

And I fell asleep.

I awoke to some very heavy breathing in my face.

I do not startle much, but when you are quite literally face-to-face with a mama bruin, one tends to react.

She snorted in my face, which smelled of pine and thyme.

She swung her great head away, grunting and pointing with her nose. I had room to move now, so I turned to look.

Those flowers were not there when I came to the glade. And they’re out of season.

A clump of skirrets, their tiny starred flowers nodding in a puff of breeze.

Mama Bear shuffled out of my way, and I moved over to them. I didn’t need Bear’s bumping to let me know I should pull them. They came away easily, dirt falling off of them like magic.

Yes, indeed.

Bear turned towards the path, grunting. And I followed.

***

My menagerie were silent as we walked out of the forest. I swear, Bear’s shoulder stood as tall as my own.

The herb maze was gone, and the youngling was awake, and back on the porch with Raccoon and Raven. The others were nearby, staring. It really was quite a large bear.

The youngling just stared at her. In longing? There was emotion in his face, of a kind I could not discern. Changelings are so hard to read.

When we got to him, I showed him the skirrets. “Youngling, I believe this bear here wants you to eat these. Do you think you can? I can try cooking-”

Grab, chomp, gobble.

“Well, all right then.”

It did not take long.

The transformation I was half-expecting started immediately. With each root and stalk and flower eaten, the youngling gained girth, and silky brown hair sprouted all over. Hands became paws with formidable claws, ears shrunk and moved back on the skull.

Mama Bear snorted contentedly, pleased with the job. She nuzzled him affectionately, and he leaned into her, dancing on his new paws. She reached over and licked my forehead, and I felt a tingling, which traveled down my arms and into my staff. They both nodded their heads, turned, and ambled into the forest.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

And Raven, who always needs to have the last word, breathed a quiet “Wow.”

Indeed. Very much so, Raven.