Hermit, Bear Spirit
Once upon a time, a time long ago, when all the world was a but a great and tangled forest, and all those that lived in it worshipped equally great spirits of that forest, there lived a young hermit.
One day, as the hermit was out walking through the trees, tracking a rabbit and her brood to collect their droppings, he came upon a new and very strange trail that had burrowed its way through the woods. It was as if something had blasted across the trail he walked, scattering bits of root and bark and clods of dirt. Something enormous had passed through here. The hermit was terrified but intrigued. What could have left such a blast through this gentle pocket of his wood? He laid a hand on the open wound of a thick fallen branch and thought he had a brief vision of some great force barreling through the trees. He was instantly filled with some forgotten sense of home, so forgotten that he may have never known it. So he turned to follow through the unknown beast’s tattered wake.
The trail seemed to take him on a twisting and senselessly winding journey, as if whatever had caused this upturn of earth had been careening out of control. Hours passed as the trail dived deeper and deeper into the forest, and it became increasingly difficult to push through the knots of brush. Just when he thought he’d gone as far as the trees would allow, he collapsed backward onto a fallen log to catch his breath, about to focus on the sunbeams dappling through the canopy.
But before he could rest his head, a bleeding chunk scratched into the face of a tree before him caught his eye. The hermit leapt forward to examine the sappy mess, whispering to the tree through his beard. Following the hacks in the bark, he noticed a pattern. Within a moment, he picked a soft leaf up from the ground to clear away the sap, revealing several stanzas carved roughly into the wood.
The young hermit reached into his bag, fishing out his brass-wire glasses, and fixed them onto his face.
The verses read:
Come, all ye Fools!
Follow my trail,
For the tail that I chase
Slaps at the sky
And spews Flame!
I see you watch
That which you know
You cannot see
It tells you, I warn you
With great terror and glee:
Its living inside you,
Its right here, beside me.
If my words give one pause
Let him scrape away bark
Let him show this raging tree
That I’ve haunted his dark.
The hermit read the verses several times through. After a moment’s hesitation, he plunged his hand into his robes and pulled out a knife. Setting himself upon the tree, he began to scrape at the bark bellow the three splintered verses.
***
The hermit awoke the next day beside a wide, flat river where he had dined on plump trout and fig paste the night before. He could feel the cool of the water lap at his ankles and smell his damp campfire’s pine smoldering beside him before he opened his eyes to the morning sun. The sun was two hours from it’s pinnacle.
Sitting up, he stretched his elbows over his head and yawned and his mind was soon absorbed in the tree in the forest, the path that had led to it, the chaotic fog that wrapped itself around his brain as he carved a response.
Determined to meet the beast, he quickly bathed, pulled on his woven robe and pulled dried fruit from his bag to chew on his walk. Noon approached and he wanted to be home before nightfall to recount his tail to his familiar.
The walk back was not long, as he camped nearby to meet the poet early in the day. The approached the tree silently, making himself invisible. He knew nothing of this spirit and its words betrayed hostility, meaning cautionary measures must be taken. He thought of his three raccoons and his familiar back at his hovel, imagined them wondering why he had never returned. Before the thought of his starving companions could strike his heart, his sight fell upon the tree. The hermit waited in the shadows of the thick brush to ensure he was alone.
After sniffing the air and scanning the area for movement, he crept forward, deciding it was safe to approach for now. He had seen places touched by spirits that did not want company and this was not one of them.
When the hermit reached the tree, he gave one more sweeping glance of the area before turning to face the tree. There were the verses, untouched as before, and there was his response: carved into the bark, in meticulous detail, was a ferocious and ragged bear tangled in combat with a small, handsome wolf. He barely remembered drawing it in his frenzy but there it was, in the style and turn of lines he employed in his studies of the local fauna. A smile crept up to his face. He was quite proud of the rendering.
But something was different. The corners of his mouth dropped and his brow furrowed. He leaned in to look at the carving up close so that his face was nearly pressed up against the bark when he noticed it. Beneath the image, in a minute lettering, was carved one word: brother.
Tears quickly welled up in his eyes, although he had no idea why. He turned to face the tail of destruction leading to the tree but it was gone. The forest was just as full and swollen as it had been before. He felt a heat rise up in his body, tangling itself around his knees, slithering up his thighs. He felt it slowly fill his belly and crystallize his lungs. He felt his spine turn to concrete as the heat bubbled up his throat as the sun shifted into the top of the sky. As the sunlight poured into the small clearing, a warm wind danced through the trees, filling the small empty patch of forest with dust and feather motes to glitter in the noon.
***
Days later, a young witch followed a trio of bloodhounds through the timberland. They were rather unfocused but they seemed to be on to something. Her mind was numb for searching and the potion that had transformed her pack would be wearing off all too soon. As the forest grew denser, the hounds grew increasingly distracted, urging the witch to turn back. “You greedy savages!” she lashed at them, “I’ll go on by myself!”
She pulled a long blade from her belt and began to hack at the branches, pushing forward through falling limbs and tears streaming down her face. After pushing through her white hot rage and a wall of vegetation, her eyes fell upon the face of a tree who’s bark had been stripped clean, sap pouring down and pooling at the roots. Something had disturbed this tree, evidence of that was hacked into the wood beneath the thick amber layer. Lifting the hem of her skirt, she wiped the wound clean.
She froze at the sight of the carving. She whipped her head around, searching for the one responsible. She began to shout, to pound at the tree with her fists until finally crumbling into a heap on the ground, sobbing.
Three raccoons emerged from the bushes, the potion having just worn off. Two of them crawled toward the witch cautiously, settling in her skirt and licking at her arms and legs. The third walked past her, straight for the tree.
Climbing up the side, hucking its small but sharp claws into the bark, it stopped beside the carving. There, it leaned its head in to lick at the meticulous engraving of a wolf and a bear, curled up into each other and fast asleep.