The Ballad of the Bear and Her Cruel Sister

The river ran backwards on the day the Queen vanished. The sky became crowded with the blackest clouds and just before the sun reached its highest point in the sky, just as the royal news descended onto the streets, the Sun rolled back down into the east and vanished behind the horizon along with her Queen. In the darkness, a thick mist settled upon the capital, obscuring the dim, candlelit homes, gathering most densely where the palace grounds languished with unease in the city center.

From the day the Queen had acceded the throne, she had inspired talk among her people. Her reign was very different from her father’s before her. The King’s death had come suddenly, when the full moon rose on the night of the Harvest Equinox. The King had been a generous man, who oversaw many prosperous harvests. He held feasts for his subjects and brought food to the beds of those too weak or sick to attend. He was loved by his people, and in the wake of his passing, the land was battered by an unrelenting tempest which wept with the people until the next full moon. And so it happened, that the Queen’s reign began with floods and destruction. Her coronation had been lightly attended due to the storms, and those who did attend wore silence on their mouths while the wind shook the palace walls with violence. A harsh winter followed the great tempest and the frosts lasted long into the Spring. The Queen receded from the public eye and became a recluse. She rarely left the palace and never held the sort of gatherings which were commonplace during the reign of the late King. Worried palace workers approached the Elders and asked what to do with the lamenting Queen. She had begun to lock herself away in her chambers for days, coming out only to eat before returning to her hermitage. She had begun to wear her hair long over her eyes, hiding the increasing distance in her gaze, and when she would go away, the guards would hear strange noises from her door. But on the morning of the Harvest Equinox, the anniversary of the King’s passing, an old fisherman went to the river for his daily catch and found the shoreline marred with the scent of death. Not only were the fish belly-up on the sand, but the river itself flowed upstream with an immaterial quickness. He hurried back to the capital, tripping on his net as he went, to report the strangeness at the riverbank. On returning, he found the capital had poured out from their homes and into the streets. “So you’ve already heard?”

“Yes. May the Spirits be kind. To her. To all of us.”

“Her?”

“The Queen.” Then, just as easily as it had risen in the sky, the Sun began to fall.

Whispers traveled quickly through the blackened streets. The darkness brought with it a paranoia that stagnated the city. People stayed in their homes, waiting and hoping for the Sun to rise, praying for the Moon to show. There was a curfew in the town. In the kingdom, children were taught to stay indoors from dusk until the break of day. Adults ventured into the night only when obligation compelled them. The creatures that stirred in the night enjoyed having that domain to themselves and the people were more than happy to let them prey the way they did while they slept, eyes blind to whatever savagery took place in the woods. Now that the night lingered and threatened never to leave, these creatures felt comfortable to stray from the cover of the forest. The Shades crept up from their underground haunts and surveyed the land that was once theirs. They skirted the edges of the city, and a dense chill rolled in, as they fed on the warmth of the world to fuel their spirit. The sudden chill spilled through the windows and under the doors of the houses of the hiding citizens. The people quickly unpacked their winter covers and curled up close in their beds, fending off the frozen gloom.

A meeting of The Elders was called immediately and they left the capital to assemble on the mountain. The Elders made their way up the crags, their cloaks draped just so to block the devious wind from snuffing out their flames. The cliff crawlers lurked among the obscurity of the crevices, hoping to scavenge a fallen Elder, losing footing in the moonless night. The Elders traversed the lesser known paths with caution, led by the Mages among them in the case of something feral and hungry making an attempt on one of them. Though this strenuous journey was not unknown to any Elder in the company, the pall of the endless night created mystery where before there was none. Slowly, one by one, the Elders arrived at the Cave of the Oracle, an ancient cavity carved in the rock, about a day’s trek below the summit. The Timekeepers reported nightfall, and the rest of the Elders in the cave laid themselves down on the hard rock for a sleepless slumber, eyes wide, the sounds of bated breath and crackling fire singular among the silence of the cave. After a few hours, they would rouse themselves from their pretend rest and sit upright once more in silence, deciding that it could now be morning, despite the sun remaining just as absent as the Queen.

It wasn’t for two more days and nights, according to the Timekeepers, that the final member, the one who had called the meeting, the Grand Oracle, Ava arrived. She arrived, flanked by her apprentices who had assumed the burden of her packs and their own. Ava wore her age well, and it was an advanced one, boasting 187 years under the Sun, until now. Her white hair glowed, despite the unrelenting night, which in turn was kind and softened her weathered features. The cave was silent when she arrived, the other Elders unwilling to discuss the impending matters prior to her arrival. They offered her their hands, cupped at their foreheads. She circled the group, letting one silver drop fall from her vial into each palm. Her disciples accepted the liquid, brought their hands to their face, and bowed to the fire. When they rose in unison from their kowtow, Ava stood by the fire in the center of the cave, encircled by the rest.

With extraordinary power from so small, so ancient a woman, she clapped her hands. The percussive command pierced the ears of all around her and echoed through the cave in a loop, each time becoming rounder, gentler, but retaining its strength. After several minutes the echo faded into the crackling sounds of the fire until they became one sound. The eager ears awaited her words.

“Elders of the Old Scroll, I called upon you to come up the Mount to discuss with you some recent troubling matters. The Queen’s disappearance is a matter of severe disturbance to our world. The Timekeepers among you know that this moment is occurring about three days after my original call to congress. But the Astronomers and Elemental Masters among you know that because this night persists, the Queen's disappearance took place only earlier this very day and tomorrow waits for us with infinite patience. Gone is our Queen, and in her wake we have lost the Sun and the Moon, as well. The river Taim has reversed her flow. I’m sure you all have drawn the same conclusion that I have, but even so, there are a lot of questions that still burn. The Ballad of the Bear and Her Cruel Sister is read to every child in our capital. It was read to our Queen while in her girlhood bed, and it was read to me by the Oracles here in this cave during my youth. The story runs in our blood and feels part of our history. Someone, possibly a stranger to our land, possibly someone in this very room, possibly the Queen herself, has decided to bring this Ballad, this Fable to life. The time has come not only to study every extant version of the Fable, but to recount any and all official dealings of the past few months, especially those regarding the Queen and the Sacred Garden. As you are the Elders of the Old Scroll, I must rely on your mastery of the world to prevent us from reaching the climax of this Fable. I realize that there may exist an Elder, or a few, in this assembly, who are responsible for this disturbance. I advise all of you to proceed with caution, and remind you that there are more of us who are working to prevent a disaster, than perpetuate one. Before we begin our discussion, I must impress one thing upon you all: If our Fable reaches its conclusion, there will be no return. The crops will die, our people will fade away into sickness, many of you will be stripped of your life-giving Manna, the roots in the Sacred Garden will rot, the Worms will ascend, and our bodies will all become part of the thick, black soil of this immortal night.”