Eventually, I had to begin the long trudge back home. The longer I put it off, the longer the journey would become - especially while time was of the essence. So, on one crisp autumn evening, without a word to anyone, I gathered my meagre belongings from my room and settled my scores with old Barliman. Along with the obligatory handful of coins to cover my lodgings, I also mustered him the finest apology I could for snarling at him on the day I received that terrible letter. He assured me that all was understood, and that he would surely have reacted the same upon hearing such tragic news from home. Even so, I still think about how I treated that kindly man, and it shames me.
Before I knew it, I was back upon the faithful trail that had become so familiar - almost dear to me, in fact. Once more, I walked the Great East Road.
Twilight had only just begun to fade into the damp blackness of night when I found myself trudging through the Midgewater Marsh. The air hung heavy with moisture. The orange, amber, and yellow leaves of the decaying trees had formed a thick pulp over the turf, glistening with dew under the moon’s shimmer while a thin mist drifted above them like smoke. As I moved onward through the marshland, my thoughts strayed to Osric. The Red Bear, they called him - presumably for his fiery hair and for the ruddy tinge his furs took when he called upon the gift of Beorn. I remember filling my lungs with the cool, damp air and feeling a solemn calm settle over me as I walked.
By the early hours of the morning, I had reached the barren beginnings of the Lone-lands. The pleasant greenery had long since given way to hardier, twisted roots and plants whose very roughness spoke of the unyielding struggle required to survive in such an inhospitable country. The moon dipped behind the surrounding hills, casting the valley into deeper darkness still, and so I chose to stop and rest for the eve. Once I had arranged my fur blankets, I set about lighting a small fire, for I did not yet feel like sleeping. Too much clouded my mind. I was going home, after all - home, which I had not seen in nearly a year. Home, which so often felt oppressive even in the best of times.
I settled against the rock-face wall, pipe in hand, and gazed at the fire as it danced and whispered before me.
Then, all at once, a distant sound broke my concentration. At first it seemed like humming, but gradually I realised - it was a bee. I turned quickly, scanning the darkness. A bee? Here? But before my eyes could find anything, the old sensations began once more to stir and twist within me. The buzzing rose from my very core, vibrating through bone and sinew and blood. Higher and higher the frequency climbed, while a surge of energy crackled through my limbs, like lightning seeking purchase. Reality warped, becoming somehow more real than reality itself. A flood of blinding colour consumed my sight. And then, as suddenly as it had vanished, vision returned.
“Come along, Benjenn,” Osric commanded.
He tucked me beneath his left arm; it felt like being enveloped in the great wing of an Eagle of the Misty Mountains. Twilight had long since faded, and the moon shone bright upon the High Meadows. Osric marched my much shorter self down toward the hives. I could not have been more than twelve that night.
The winds howled over the hilltops, battering the great oaks from every direction. The trees rattled and groaned beneath the onslaught. My thick animal-hide coat whipped wildly wherever it was not fastened down.
“You will be made a bear tonight, little cub,” Osric said.
At last, we reached the hives, nestled just below the High Meadow and before Bear Hill.
“As you know, Benjenn,” he continued, “it has been our tradition since the time of old: when a young cub comes of age, he or she stands before the elders and the Chieftain to be tested. This night, you shall guard the hives through the blackness until dawn. You will defend them from any wolf - or any other creature - that dares approach. This is your task. Your duty. And great honour should be yours, if you succeed.”
The hives stood silent before me, as they often do in the dead cold of winter. Yet my gaze kept shifting to the woods beyond. It seemed as though two great yellow eyes stared back at me. Whether real or merely the tricks of a frightened young mind, the sight made my legs tremble.
“But, dear brother,” I whispered, “I… I am afraid.”
Osric’s grip tightened. “Benjenn, my sweet brother, be not afraid. You are safe here, in our home. Come - this is the hour in which you prove yourself.” Tears welled up and rolled down my full, youthful cheeks. He brushed them away with the sleeve of his great coat.
“You must rally yourself,” he urged. “Take one deep breath, hold it, and let it out completely. Find your centre. You have fire within you. You must only learn to turn wisdom into courage.”
I looked up at my shaggy, red-haired brother. “Do you truly think so?” I managed, my voice quivering.
“Why ever not?” he replied firmly. “Why would you think otherwise?”
It took me several moments to answer. At last I whispered, “Hármund told me I would never last the night - that Father would never abide my weakness. And you know how he has Father’s ear…”
Osric stopped for a few moments, and after taking a breath, knelt down in the snow beside me so that his weathered face was level with mine.
“Benjenn,” he began softly “You must not allow our brothers venomous words to take root inside you. Hármund is our brother, yes, but his endless, gluttonous thirst for Fathers approval clouds his judgment. And well, Father-...”
He shifted his head to face the heights of Bear Hill, that sacred mound where the line of Beorn are returned to the forest at the coming of their end of days. Osric leered at the hill as if the very stones might hear him. “Father bends his ear too readily to talk of force and conquest. He forgets that strength wears many forms.”
A sudden burst of confidence overcame me, and before I could still my tongue, I blurted out “Father thinks me weak, Osric.”
“Then Father does not know you at all - or by meagre consideration alone.” he replied.
Osric placed his hand upon my shoulder once more, his tight grip behind his mitten draining my tension and easing the tremors in my legs.
“Hear me now, Benjenn - and hear me well.” His voice was low and certain. “There are men in this life who oft’ mistake barking for biting. Verily, indeed - they mistake the noise a man makes with the power that man wields. They see strength proven in the volume by which means their commands are issued, or by the speed at which they break and bend another to their will. Such men measure worth the way a common butcher weighs his meat and never recognise their own folly.” Osric shook his head in contempt. His red, shaggy mane blowing with every gust of violent wind.
“But they are fools, dear Benjenn. Harken to me - fools. For that is not strength at all, but merely force, brutish or otherwise. And I will impart you this, dear cub: force is the most frightened form of power there is. Force on its own - it screams out due to its perpetual fear of being forgotten or ignored. It lashes out its venomous strikes because it fears being struck itself. It makes its entitled demands because it is intimately aware that it has not earned.” Osric stopped, and stared me dead in my eye. His deep scarlet gaze looking back at mine own.
“True strength is quieter, dear cub. It grows inconspicuously in quiet contemplation. In the moments when not a soul praises you, or even sees you. When you must choose who you intend to be without any fame nor riches to be amassed. True strength is to feel fear in the depths of your heart, and still march forward in defiance. Strength is in the heart that may be broken, but does not crystalise. In delivering warmth and goodwill to a land that greets you with its teeth bared.”
I caught my breath at last and managed to close my slackened jaw long enough to make a muted gulp. Nobody had ever spoken to me as Osric just had. Osric himself seemed to be scanning my face, ensuring his words had taken deep root inside me.
“You believe that Father calls you a weakling? A craven? Then that is Fathers very own blindness! He sees only your fear and never your resolve. But I do, Benjenn. I see you for what you are. And harken to this, three men may be equally measured by the prowess of his bladesmanship, or the fleetness of his foot, or the wisdom of his mind.
But that last one, Benjenn, is the most dangerous weapon you will ever face. No blade nor lance nor bodkin would sour my soul with fear, but the only weapon that certainly would-... is the very one you have behind your eyes. That, dear cub, is the most dangerous weapon of them all.”
Osric moved his hand from his shoulder to the crown of my head, his mitten sat atop my dark, unkempt mane.
“Tonight is not to be a test of your body, little cub. It is the beginning of a story you choose to believe about yourself. And mark my works plainly, dear brother. You, Benjenn Honey-Mouth, are stronger than the one Father praises. Your heart is truer than that of the bear who mocks you. You are indeed worth more than either of them can yet comprehend.”
He pulled at the back of my head and drove me into his shoulder. Both his arms cradled the sides of me and squeezed. “I would never let any harm come to you, my brother.” he spoke to my ear.
*
Two or three hours must have passed in that freezing wind, but a newfound fire had been lit inside my belly. The shame of disappointing my dear brother, the Red Bear, consumed me and in that moment I could never yield. I began breathing in the manner Osric showed me and for the first time that night, a deep sense of calm came over my being.
It was a perfect harmonious peace. Though my nose was frozen and outercoat dampened, I could feel nought but bliss. Nature and the cycle in perfect unison. Absolute synergy. I removed my left mitten and brought it out into the bitter cold before brushing off any snowfall from the hives and laying my bare hand in the clearing. I recall feeling a small, swelling hum - like the heartbeat of the very hive gently beating in a rhythmic succession.
That's when I heard it: the soft crunching of footfall atop fresh, powdered snow.
I calmly scanned the horizons and at first, saw nothing but the distant and shadowed line of trees compounding the dark swell reaching atop Bear Hill. Then, from the shadow of a nearby birch tree, a grey-haired elder stepped into the pale wash of moonlight.
His slow pace was deliberate and not due to the frailty of age, with a quiet confidence exuded as he hiked atop the snow. The elder seemed to be in no rush, and certainly did not show any fear of the night. His damp, frost-dusted cloak was heavy, and lined with furs. His long and silvered beard stirred to the side in the now more infrequent gusts of wind. But it was the elders' bright amber eyes that arrested me at that moment. Bright - so bright they seemed to emit a glow of their amber tone that lit up the blackened night like a campfire, or hearth. It filled me with a sense of comfort and home and without knowing this old bear, he radiated a quiet composure of knowledge and patience.
“Sun on your door, young cub.” he murmured with a gentle voice. “The night has only teeth, for those that bare theirs prior.”
I swallowed inconspicuously. “I-.. I did not hear you approach.”
“Few do when their minds are so loud,” the elderly Beorning said. “But… yours seems to be quieting now.” He stepped closer with his gentle pace and I saw his clanmark clearly. It was one thick line through the vertical of his eye, with two, shortened lines on the outer side, each decreasing in size moving outwards. And it was using a dark yellow paint, the colour of mustard.
The old bear moved beside me and took out a weathered hand from ‘neath his cloak. The same as me, he dusted some snow from atop one of the hives and planted his bare hand atop the roof. For a minute or two, the old man and I just breathed beside one another. I wondered if he could feel the hive beating in rhythm, as I did. But I did not wonder for very long.
“You feel it, don't you little cub?” he asked with his hushed tone. “The warmth, the symphony, the bliss - the remembering.”
I nodded my head to the elderly Beorning, but I was uncertain in truth. “I do but… I cannot fathom what it is.”
The old bear let out a gentle chuckle. I knew there was no mockery in his manner. “You know indeed, little cub. You simply lack the words to describe it yet.”
The wind let out a great burst, and sent both our hoods whipping against the tide. “I thought I was alone this eve’,” I said to the old bear, finally. He turned to look at the darkness atop the Hill and then back to gaze his great, lantern-like eyes at me once again.
“No, dear cub,” he chuckled again, “No Beorning is ever alone beside this Hill. Not while the blood of our kindred beats in their hearts. Not while the hives stand through the winter. No, never while our dear people endure.” He removed his hand from the hive and carefully placed it atop my shoulder, just as Osric had many hours prior.
“You will guard these hives this night,” he said to me as I gazed into his warm eyes.”Not because you must, no! But because you can. The gift is not reserved for the strongest child. Nor the loudest or most eager. It is for all the blessed sons of our line.”
Finally, the old Beorning rose and set about making his way away from the hives. “You have done well already, Benjenn, son of Grimbeorn,” and before I could speak any response, his back was turned and the old bear was roving back into the night. First his figure became a silhouette, then a distant shape and finally nothing more than a curious impression cast amongst the slow snowfall.
*
Dawn came lumbering to the High Meadows. Just a streaking silvering of the snow before finally the night retracted its opaque shroud. The frosty, bare trees appeared to me first with their dangling, snow-laden branches catching the first glitters of the sunlight. The whole of the meadow in which I stood guard seemed to exhale with the coming of first light, and the tormenting tension of the night melted away into the cold morning air.
My legs were cramped and weary. I had not slept, no. But I had stood guard as the chieftains requested and through pride alone, I felt no exhaustion. I felt my peace again. Slow, measured breathing, amongst the beautiful cycles of nature. The sun and moon, in their eternal, measured dance.
Then, footsteps began to crunch behind me. Great, broad, heavy footsteps. It was the Red Bear, Osric. I did not even need to move my gaze. “Well then!” he boomed at me “You’re still here little brother, that’s already more than dear brother Hármund bargained for.”
A sense of relief overcame me as I smiled at Osric. “I know, brother. I know.”
“No sign of wolves, no-.. No wolves. And the hives-..” he turned and ran a hand atop the greatest in size, inspecting it diligently. “And the hives look untouched by any intruder through the night.” Osric beamed at me, his short, red beard pushing at either side of his proud grin.
A rhythmic buzz started to build in my chest. But it was not the gift, no - not this time. Something simpler and just as powerful however. I was proud of my achievement, it was a coming of age indeed. Not proud, however, that I had proved Hármund to be wrong. Nor in hope of Father, for once, looking upon me with approval. But because I had proved something to myself. And Osric’s words proved pregnant with truth.
After a few minutes, Osric spoke, “Come,” he said to me. “There is breakfast in the feasting hall awaiting you, young bear. Let us get you rested.”
I forced a hoarse laugh. It was laden with my exhaustion, now creeping to the forefront, but was genuine nonetheless. We set off down the path back towards the feasting hall of Grimbeorn. The snow had stopped falling now, and it felt soft and loose beneath our feet as we ascended the great hill higher and higher, on towards the High Meadow once more.
Halfway up the slope away from the hives, I turned back to burgle one last glimpse of them - standing glorious in the early morning sun. Then, I saw in the same brightened sun that the snow around them was wholly undisturbed by footfall - apart from my own footprints.
There was no second trail. No sign of anybody else.
I woke to bird call as the sun began to break amongst the valley wall of the Lone Lands in which I lay. I was greatly shocked. I had slept the night through against that jagged rock wall, and my pipe lay down on the rocks between my legs. Thankfully, still in one piece. I quickly surveyed my small campsite and found again, thankfully, everything to be in order. The fire had long died, it seemed, and I had seen through the night sat completely upright with my back against a rough and uneven rock face. I was surprised at how the stabbing, aching pain in my back was not as painful as I had imagined upon first realisation, however, as I packed up camp I realised it was causing a pain that I thought would likely come back to bite me later that day.
My pack lay unmolested to my right side, and I opened it and set about fetching some trail food for breakfast. After settling on a small handful of blackberries wrapped in a leaf with twine, I packed up my kit and started off on the road again.
No matter how many berries I had through the march, the taste of pine and perpetual cold in my bones still made me feel I was still there, long ago and bounding through fresh snowfall. It was a dream, I had concluded a short way into the walk, as I reasoned with myself and questioned plenty.
But the march must continue, and I must not lose pace. Osric would bark at me to stand tall, if he was here with me. The thought brought warmth to me again however, and so I elected to oblige him regardless. There will be time for how I feel later - for now, I need to get back home. I can’t let my dear brother down at his final farewell.
- B.
